





/ 


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Paul Douglas — Journalist 


BY 

CHARLES M. SHELDON 

AUTHOR OF 

44 In His Steps,” 44 Bom to Serve/* 
44 The Reformer,” etc. 



CHICAGO 

ADVANCE PUBLISHING COMPANY 


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Copyright 1909 

BY 

CHARLES M. SHELDON 


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©Cl. A 2 53058 


PAUL DOUGLAS 


Chapter I. 

The city editor of the Milton Daily News whirled 
around in his chair and said to a young man who had just 
come into his room in the News building, ‘'Well, what do 
you want?” 

The young man to whom the question was put showed 
neither embarrassment nor confusion at the abrupt ques- 
tion. He sat down on a chair near the city editor’s desk 
and with a slow and deliberate motion drew a letter from 
his inside coat pocket and without a word handed it over 
to the editor. 

Mr. Albert Darcy almost snatched the letter out of the 
young man’s hand. He picked up a letter knife off his 
desk and ripped open the envelope savagely. The moment 
his eye fell on the writing his whole manner changed. 
As he began to read, he looked up at the youth sitting 
near him, and noted with interest his strong and self- 
possessed face. The letter to Mr. Darcy is public prop- 
erty. Hence we will read it with him. 

“My Dear Darcy: 

“This will introduce to you my oldest son, Paul, whose 
mind is bent on becoming a journalist. I send him to 
you to lick into shape. The boy is nineteen years old 
and is old for his age. He is a graduate of Westville 


6 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


High school. I wanted him to go to college but a number 
of unfortunate things came last year to get in the way. 
Mrs. Douglas had a long and painful illness. My business 
ventures in the northwest turned out disastrously and I 
lost very heavily. No need to dwell on all that. Paul 
insisted on getting into line as a bread winner. He has 
always been literary, I believe that is what you call it, 
though I don’t know a poem from a gas meter. He has 
been editor of the high school paper three years running 
and I believe he has even broken into one or two mag- 
azines with his efforts. He is bound to be a newspaper 
man and I don’t know any one anywhere who could 
give him better training than yourself. He is willing, of 
course, to begin at the bottom and work up. You will 
find him, if I do say it, a very modest, teachable, and at 
the same time original sort of a fellow, who has ideas of 
his own, but is not too proud or big headed to learn. Give 
him a trial, won’t you, Darcy, for the sake of old ac- 
quaintance and old times ? I believe you will if you can. 

“Regards to Mrs. Darcy and the boys and Esther. 

“Very truly your old friend, 

“Robert Douglas, 

“Westville.” 

Mr. Albert Darcy finished reading the letter from his 
old friend and laid it down on his desk. 

“Glad to see you,” he said, holding out his hand to Paul 
without rising. Paul shook hands, but he did not get 
up to do so. 

“Father told me he thought you wouldn’t object to my 
coming.” 

“So you want to be a newspaper man, eh ?” 

“I not only want to be, I am going to be.” 


JOURNALIST 


7 


“I don’t know whether we have anything in the News 
at present.” 

“If you don’t have any place for me here, could you 
give me a note to the Gazette or the Press?” 

Darcy stared at the boy and then laughed. 

“I could perhaps for your father’s sake, but look here, 
I haven’t time to spare this morning. I’ll give you a 
trial; one of our boys is going to leave in a couple of 
weeks. I’ll put you on the Churches and the Police Court. 
How is that for a starter?” Mr. Albert Darcy chuckled 
grimly as he eyed the new reporter. 

“It’s all right. But I won’t work on Sunday.” 

“You won’t!” Mr. Albert Darcy had a temper that 
was proverbial in the News office. “No reporter says 
he ‘won’t’ in this office. How are you going to do the 
Churches, without working on Sunday?” 

“I don’t know. But I do know I won’t work on Sun- 
day for any newspaper on earth. I need Sunday for 
rest.” 

“Good for you !” said Mr. Albert Darcy, sarcastically. 
“You have mistaken your calling. What you ought to 
do is to apply for a position digging canals in Mars. I 
am sorry we haven’t any place for you here.” 

The boy got up slowly. “So am I. Would you mind 
giving me the note of introduction you spoke of to the 
Gazette and Press?” 

Darcy laughed again. 

“Sit down,” he said abruptly. “It’s no use for you to 
go to the Gazette or Press. They would make you work 
on Sunday.” 

“No paper can make me work on Sunday,” said Paul 
Douglas, as he sat down again, and Darcy, looking at him 


8 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


even more keenly, said to himself, “I’m sure it couldn’t.” 
Then he added, “You can go on for the Police Court at 
present and anything else you can pick up on the way. 
When can you begin?” 

“Now.” 

“Where are you staying?” 

“At the Y. M. C. A.” 

“How much do you expect the News to pay you the 
first month ?” 

“Whatever I’m worth.” 

“Who will determine that?” 

“You will.” 

“Well, begin on $10 a week. Is that fair?” 

“It’s three dollars more than I expected.” 

Darcy laughed again. He was getting good humored. 
Robert Douglas’ boy interested him. His eye fell on the 
open letter and caught the sentence, “I believe he has even 
broken into one or two magazines with his efforts.” He 
looked up and asked with some uncertainty, as if he did 
not know how the question would be received, “Your 
father says you have succeeded in getting into one or two 
magazines. Would you mind telling me what mag- 
azines ?” 

“No sir,” for the first time Paul Douglas blushed. 

Darcy waited, but Paul was silent. 

“Well, you said you wouldn’t mind telling me ” 

“No sir, I wouldn’t.” 

“Well, what are they then?” 

“I was waiting for you to ask me. I had something 
in McClure’s last month.” 


“McClure’s!” 


JOURNALIST 


9 


“Yes, and last year Harper’s took a little article of 
mine.” 

“Under your own name?” Darcy asked. 

“No, I write under the nom de plume of 'Robert 
Cheviot/ My father’s first name is Robert, and my 
mother was a Cheviot of Aberdeen, Scotland.” 

“What was the name of the story?” 

“The Missing Word.” 

“Ah! I remember it. So that was yours!” Mr. Albert 
Darcy stared at Robert Douglas’ boy with a feeling of 
mingled jealousy and admiration. Here it must be said 
that it was a deep ambition with Mr. Darcy to get into 
the best magazines. To his intense personal disappoint- 
ment, even mortification, he had so far been unable. He 
was a clever writer, editorially. He had a style which 
was known and often quoted in other papers. But for 
years Mr. Darcy had been writing stories and seeking 
publication for them in the well known publications like 
McClure’s, Harper’s, The Saturday Evening Post, and 
The Ladies’ Home Journal. Once he had succeeded in 
getting a short story into The Youth’s Companion. The 
event had encouraged him immensely and if truth be 
told had made him vain. But his vanity soon had a 
severe shock. He at once wrote several short stories and 
submitted them to the Companion, only to receive them 
all back again. On one or two of these manuscripts the 
readers had scribbled “Not up to the mark.” The five 
monosyllables cut into Mr. Darcy’s self esteem deeper 
than he ever dared acknowledge to any one. He had 
tried again and again and failed. The one real ambition 
of his literary life was to get into the big magazines. He 
was fifty- two years old. He had a daughter and one son 


10 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


in Hope College and one boy in the High School. Ha 
had been writing for thirty years and his ambition was 
not gratified. The newspaper work was bread and butter, 
but the other would be fame, and that was his secret 
craving. And here sat this youth, not yet arrived at man’s 
estate, who had already succeeded in getting the work 
of his brain into two of the big publications. To Mr. 
Albert Darcy, city editor of the Milton Daily News, the 
fact was embittering. It might be safe to say that from 
this moment he thought of the son of his old friend with 
more or less unmanly jealousy. It was as if a personal 
resentment had sprung up in his mind against the boy, 
as if in some way the boy had come between him and his 
own ambition. It was absurd on the face of it and Albert 
Darcy knew it, but nevertheless he entertained his resent- 
ment and let it grow. 

“What was your story in Harper’s ?” he asked abruptly. 
It was torture to his own defeated ambition to ask the 
question, but he seemed impelled to ask it. 

“It wasn’t a story. It was a poem.” 

“Write poetry too, eh? Suppose you knew we kill all 
attempts at that on the part of the force here!” Mr. 
Darcy said, savagely. 

“The editor of Harper’s said my poem came very near 
being verse,” Paul smiled as he said it. Darcy laughed 
again. But it was not a pleasant laugh. 

“Well, you can get to work any time. Here’s the style 
board. And here are my directions. Expect you to live 
up to them.” 

He handed Paul two printed folders. Paul knew 
enough about newspaper offices to understand the style 
board. The other was not so familiar. Darcy did what 


JOURNALIST 


11 


some- city editors of dailies sometimes do, he printed a 
brief list of rules for the working force, including, espe- 
cially, any new hands like Douglas. Paul went out of 
the room without any more questions, as Darcy turned 
abruptly to his desk. As he went back to his room at the 
Y. M. C. A. to leave word about his staying permanently, 
he read Darcy’s rules with interest. They were char- 
acteristic of Darcy’s management of the News, which, 
in the judgment of newspaper men, had been eminently 
successful. 

RULES E OR NEWS REPORTERS. 

( 1 ) Get the news. Get it quickly. 

(2) Verify. 

(3) Personal feelings and opinions of reporters don’t 
count. Those belong to the editor. 

(4) Definition of news ; whatever happens. 

(5) Make friends with the political enemies of the 
newspaper. 

(6) Read newspapers to find out how to do things. 

(7) Don’t be afraid of going anywhere. Go on the 
principle that the press is the all powerful thing in the 
community. 

(8) Beat the other papers in getting on the inner side. 

(9) The News does not want details of scandals, 
divorce suits or prize fights except in special cases, which 
will be designated in this office. 

(10) In case of suicides and murders, always give 
cause and sensational developments likely to grow out of 
event. 

(11) The principal thing is to get the news and get it 
in a hurry. 

(12) After getting it, write it in the best English you 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


know. Avoid fine writing and stereotyped phrases like 
“The hall was crowded to its fullest capacity”; “When 
he reached the climax the audience burst into a furor of 
applause,” etc. 

(13) Get the news. 

Paul went up to his room at the Y. M. C. A. building 
to take a few things out of his trunk and while there he 
read the city editor’s rules over again. He faced his 
new work with some degree of excitement. Boy though 
he was, he had a confidence in his own ability which was 
tempered by a natural modesty of feeling. He foresaw 
that Darcy would be a hard man to please and vaguely 
felt as if he were going to have trouble, but as he went 
out of the Association building to get the Police Court 
news he was so pleasantly excited over the prospect of 
his future that he did not dwell on the subject of the city 
editor’s attitude towards him. 

The News was an evening paper. It was now nine 
o’clock in the morning. The Police Court held its session 
at nine, as Paul found out by making inquiry in the office. 
He hurried on down to the court room and was just in 
time to hear the court summon the first case. 

There was a miscellaneous gathering of white and 
black people in the court room and Paul studied the 
faces as he listened to the disposition of the cases. 
Summed up as “news” at the end of half an hour, it con- 
sisted of four “drunks,” two “assaults,” one case of “petty 
thieving,” two cases of “disturbing the peace,” and one 
neighborhood quarrel over the ownership of a dog. The 
whole thing was saturated with the dirty, dismal atmos- 
phere of human degradation and sin. Paul was too young 
to realize it all, but he was quick to catch the spirit of 


JOURNALIST 


13 


the room full of dulled, apathetic, machine-like acceptance 
of the daily grind of sin. It was a half hour of tragedy 
that heaven was weeping over, but an occasion that lent 
itself to coarse laughter and brutal remark on the part of 
earth, personified in the lawyers and the spectators, aided 
by the black and white offenders themselves. One white 
girl clad in a torn silk dress, wearing a gorgeous hat 
trimmed with red, white and blue rosettes, laughed drunk- 
enly when the court fined her $10 and added 30 days 
in jail. No one paid much attention to it. The occur- 
rence was too common. A policeman laid a heavy hand 
on her shoulder, spoke her first name and, without further 
ceremony, pushed her through the door leading to the 
jail quarters, and the trials proceeded. 

When the court had finished the morning work, judge, 
lawyers, spectators and criminals hurried out. 

At the door Paul introduced himself to the judge as a 
representative of the News and asked a few questions. 
The judge seemed surprised at the nature of the questions 
but answered him as best he could, and at his request 
put the clerk’s record before him. Paul spent half an 
hour going over the books and the clerk helped him, in 
answer to a variety of questions. For the first time in 
his life Paul felt a certain sense of power that seemed 
to go with his position. It was not overpowering, but it 
was real and definite. When he finally came out of the 
court room it was after eleven o’clock. He recalled 
Darcy’s directions that he was on the Police Court and 
whatever else he could pick up on the way. Going up 
the main street with all his senses alert, and remembering 
Darcy’s definition of news, he saw one or two things that 
he jotted down as possible stories. As he was doing this, 


14 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


some one called his name. He looked up in astonishment, 
for he did not know that any one in Milton knew him. 

“Paul Douglas, isn’t it?” A middle aged man spoke 
and stopped directly in front of him. 

“Yes sir.” 

“Well, I’m Freeman, Clark Freeman. Your father is 
one of my best friends. I’ve seen you at Westville when 
you were younger. Don’t you remember me now ?” 

“Yes, and I’ve heard father speak of you often.” 

“He has reason to. I owe him money,” Mr. Freeman 
laughed, and eyed Paul somewhat keenly. 

“I never heard father say anything bad of you.” 

“No?” Mr. Freeman’s eyes softened. “Well, I hope 
to square up with him some day. But what are you doing 
here in Milton?” 

“I’m on the News.” 

“No? In what capacity?” 

“I’m reporting the Police Court and anything else I 
can pick up.” 

“Thought your father wanted you to go to college.” 

“He did— but ” 

Paul was not ready to confide in a comparative stranger 
the fact that financial reasons at home had made him a 
bread winner. Mr. Freeman seemed to understand the 
reason for the unfinished sentence. 

“What success are you having?” 

“I’ve only just begun.” 

“Want a scoop?” Freeman asked suddenly. 

“A scoop ?” 

“On the Gazette?” 

“Why — yes, if it’s fair.” Paul betrayed both his mod- 
esty and his lack of familiarity with newspaper ethics. 


JOURNALIST 


15 


Freeman laughed. “Anything is fair, my boy, in jour- 
nalism, that gets ahead of the other fellow. Besides, it 
will do me a lot of good to even up with the Gazette for 
several little reading notices of theirs. And it is a scoop, 
too. Darcy would give his chances of getting into the 
Ladies’ Home Journal for it.” Freeman chuckled and 
eyed Paul wistfully. Paul’s excitement began to rise in 
him. 

“Pm acting secretary for the governor during Pool’s 
absence in Europe, and the governor has sent me down 
here to see Captain Williams.” 

Paul looked as blank as he felt. What had Captain 
Williams to do with a scoop on the Gazette? 

“Of course you know something about the guesses the 
politicians have been making about the governor’s ap- 
pointment of a Senator to fill out the unexpired term of 
Senator Andrews, who was killed in the A. L. and F 
wreck ?” 

Paul knew of that and had kept somewhat close track 
of the interest created by the public uncertainty as to 
what the governor would do. 

“Well, the governor decided yesterday to appoint Cap- 
tain Williams if Williams would accept. There isn’t a 
politician in the state ever dreamed of Williams for the 
position. He lives here in Milton and the governor has 
sent me down here to interview him. I have the appoint- 
ment in my pocket and I am instructed to give it to the 
Captain if he accepts, as I am sure he will. It’s the gov- 
ernor’s policy to keep on good terms with all the papers 
in giving out important news impartially, but I can 
explain to him that an enterprising reporter on the News 
got onto this appointment before the Gazette or the Press 


16 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


heard of it.” Mr. Clark Freeman chuckled again, and 
again eyed Paul with kindly interest. Paul turned red. 
His excitement was steadily rising. He had the news- 
paper temperament and realized now what this unex- 
pected scoop might mean to him. 

“Pm on my way to see Williams now. Might as well 
come on with me. Maybe the Captain will give you an 
interview,” Freeman said, and almost before he knew it 
Paul found himself with the Governor’s acting secretary 
in Captain Williams’ office waiting the result of the meet- 
ing between him and Mr. Freeman, who had gone into 
an adjoining room. 

Paul sitting there by himself could not avoid hearing 
the voices, although he could not distinguish the words. 
Freeman’s quick abrupt statement was followed by a deep 
ejaculation and then a significant silence followed. After 
that, both men spoke in short, quick sentences. Ten 
minutes went by. The clock out on the public building 
on the main street struck twelve. Then the door opened 
and Clark Freeman appeared with a smile on his face. 
He beckoned to Paul to come in. 

“The Captain says he will see you. Senator, this is 
Paul Douglas, son of an old friend of mine, and a re- 
porter on the News. You can trust him to get things 
straight.” The newly appointed Senator shook Paul’s 
hand in democratic fashion and during the next few min- 
utes Paul tingled over the interview granted him. When 
he finally went away he carried with him something 
which he knew even Darcy would consider real news. 
Mr. Freeman said good bye heartily and his last words 
were, “When you write home, tell your father I can 


JOURNALIST 


17 


pay him that money soon. This appointment means 
something for me politically.” 

It was now half past twelve and Paul hurried to the 
News office to write out his copy. He took the machine 
assigned him in the reporters' room and was soon pound- 
ing away at a great rate. He had not even remembered 
that he was hungry. The paper went to press for its 
first edition at 3 o'clock and by half past one he had 
nearly finished his scoop. He wrote out his Police Court 
news last. The loose typewritten sheets were scattered 
over the little table, when, to the great surprise of the 
boys who were at work in the room, Darcy entered and 
walked over to Paul. 

“Let me see your stuff,” he said abruptly. 

There were several impulses affecting Darcy. He 
wanted to make Paul feel uncomfortable and he had also 
a mean and narrow curiosity to see for himself if there 
was not some opportunity for sarcastic comment. He 
found it in Paul's story of the Police Court which was 
the first thing to take up. 

“That's no go here. We don't warn that. This is not 
a Sunday-school. Didn't you read the rules ? Moralizing 
isn't your business.” 

“I didn't moralize!” said Paul, with spirit. “I’ve 
simply given the causes for those Police Court cases. 
And the causes are just as I’ve written, the saloon at the 
bottom of most of them.” 

“Leave the saloon alone,” said Darcy, with contempt. 
He was a high license man and never attacked that policy 
in Milton. “You've nothing to do with causes. All the 
News wants is facts. Here! This is the way to get 
them.” 


18 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


The city editor pulled a copy of the News out from 
under a disordered heap of papers on a table near by 
and thrust a page of it under Paul’s face. Paul saw 
under the heading Police Court , an item as follows. 

“Jake Thompson showed up this morning with his 
usual jag, frayed a little on the edges from overwear. 
His Honor told Jake that he might as well cancel his 
engagements on the Kerosene Circuit for thirty days and 
send out cards 'at home in the city bastile after June 3/ 
Jake did not appeal the case and will put his nose into 
cold storage until the next time.” 

Paul wanted to say he did not consider this at all 
funny but Darcy had gone on with the reading of his 
“stuff, ” and had now reached his scoop on the appoint- 
ment of Captain Williams. 

He had not read two lines when he stopped and looked 
up at Paul. “What’s this? A fake?” 

Paul’s sense of his own honesty rose up at once with 
indignation. He got up from his seat and said loud 
enough for every listening reporter in the room to hear : 

“Mr. Darcy, you apologize to me for that, or you’re no 
gentleman.” 

Mr. Albert Darcy glared at Paul in amazement. Then 
without a word he went back to the reading of the inter- 
view with Williams. He finished the account with grow- 
ing excitement. Then he looked up again at Paul. The 
boy was still standing at the table his hands clenched and 
his face pale with anger. Darcy looked amazed. Then 
he said with a laugh, “Of course I apologize. I acknowl- 
edge it was mean of me to question it,” he said in a tone 
of frankness that disarmed Paul in great measure al- 
though his anger could not subside at once. “Come, my 


JOURNALIST 


19 


boy,” Darcy continued, kindly. “I was simply taken back 
by this. Have the Gazette or the Press got this?” 

“No.” 

“It’s the real stuff, I won’t forget it,” Darcy said, 
hurriedly. He went out of the room leaving Paul still 
standing by the table^ the other boys looking at him cur- 
iously. 

“First time ever heard the old man apologize,” said 
one. “What’s the scoop? President assassinated?” 

Paul briefly and with some pride told of the appoint- 
ment. The new reporter came in for a large share of 
envy and considerable admiration. He rose in estimation 
with the reportorial force of the News at a bound. 

“Think you can keep it up?” said one. 

Paul did not reply. He walked out and went over to 
a restaurant to get some lunch. As he went out of the 
building he noticed a crowd already gathering in front 
of the News building reading the statement Darcy had 
put out. 

“The Governor appoints Captain Williams as Senator. 
Interesting interview in News.” Paul felt a certain pride 
at the sight of the crowd and the knowledge that when 
the News came out that evening the city would be read- 
ing as the most important of all, his own account of this 
appointment. 

He went back to the reporters’ room to write out the 
other stories which he had noted before his meeting with 
Mr. Freeman. On his way past Darcy’s door the city 
editor called him in. 

Paul entered with some reluctance. He realized that 
there was something about Darcy that ruffled him. He 
was too frank and open-hearted himself to be able to 


20 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


realize that a grown man like Darcy could be jealous of 
him on account of his literary skill, but he felt that there 
was an antagonism of some sort between them, and he 
found his dislike to Darcy was already growing into a 
positive thing. 

Darcy seemed to feel something of the antagonism, and 
his first words showed an effort to lessen it. 

“I want to apologize again, Paul, for what I said. It’s 
a fine scoop, and I give you credit.” 

Paul was silent and Darcy showed by his manner that 
he was still seeking some way to close the incident with 
satisfaction to himself. 

“Your account of the whole thing was finely written 
up. Couldn’t have done better myself.” 

If Paul could have realized how much it cost Darcy 
to say that he would have dismissed most of his feeling 
against the city editor. But not having the slightest ink- 
ling of Darcy’s real feelings he simply replied, 

“Thank you.” 

Darcy shrugged his shoulders. 

“Mrs. Darcy would like to have you come up and take 
tea with us tonight. I phoned her you were at the 
Y. M. C. A. Your mother and Mrs. Darcy were very 
good friends in Abbot Academy years ago.” 

“Thank you. I’ll be glad to come,” replied Paul, thaw- 
ing out quickly. 

“Report at the house at 6 o’clock, 1127 North street,” 
Darcy said briefly. And Paul thanked him again and 
went into the reporters’ room to finish his stories. 

Promptly at six he rung the bell at Darcy’s house. 
While waiting for the door to open he remembered that 
Darcy’s family consisted of Mrs. Darcy, one daughter, 


JOURNALIST 


21 


Esther, and two boys whose names he had forgotten. 

The servant showed him into a reception room and 
said Mrs. Darcy would be there in a few minutes. He 
had hardly sat down when he heard voices speaking 
excitedly in an adjoining room. The door was ajar and 
he could see a library room, and the voices were so near 
that if he had wished to avoid hearing it- would not have 
been possible. 

“O come now, Esther, when a fellow’s in a pinch I 
think you might help him out. Father gives you twice 
as much as he gives me and your expenses are not half 
as much.” 

Paul could hear the sister’s reply as she spoke in ear- 
nest fashion but as if guarding a temptation to lose her 
temper. 

“You’ve no reason to say that, Louis. A girl’s expenses 
are always more than a boy’s. But in any case I will not 
give you any of my allowance.” 

“I don’t ask you to give it to me. I only want to bor- 
row it a little while. I’ll pay it back.” 

“You’ve said that twice before. But you don’t keep 
your word, Louis. I can’t trust you.” 

The boy broke out into a passionate remonstrance and 
appeal. He seemed in great fear of something. Paul 
started to his feet exceedingly embarrassed by the situa-’ 
tion. He felt as if he ought to let his presence be known, 
but he hardly knew how to introduce himself. 

“Come, Esther, help me just this once, won’t you? 
Father won’t let me have a cent until my month is up. 
And you know what a fuss he made last time when he 
found out about that hack. Of course I had to have a 
hack to the class party. All the other fellows have hacks. 


22 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


I can’t help it, can I, if the hackmen have gone up to 
three dollars? And then you know what a fuss he made 
when he found the party cost us eight dollars apiece. 
I don’t dare ask him for a cent. And I owe Kane five 
dollars for flowers, and Bruce over six dollars for candy, 
and a lot of other bills ” 

The boy’s voice was tense and high and had a note of 
tears in it. The girl’s in reply was firm, and Paul, still 
hearing it all with a sense of deepening shame, could 
detect a note of scorn in it. 

“I’m sorry, Louis. But I can’t give you a cent. We 
have our class party next week, and I’ve pledged nearly 
all my allowance* We entertain the boys from the Uni- 
versity and it’s going to be the most expensive ” 

“Yes, you blow in twice as much for functions as I 
ever do and father never says anything to you. You 
know you could go to him tonight and wheedle him out 
of a lot of money. Say, Esther, won’t you do it and — 
then — let me have it? You don’t know how much I 
need it. I must have it, somehow. I tell you, I must.” 

“What, Louis Darcy ! Lie to father about it ? I know 
you’ve done it more than once, but you ought not to 
expect me to do it for you. And the last time I begged 
you to give up your dirty cigarette habit you promised 
me you would, and went right on.” 

The brother interrupted with a cry that revealed his 
weakness and his fear. 

“I can’t help it. All the other fellows in the fraternity 
smoke. I can’t hold out and keep my standing. It’s one 
of the rules that you have to smoke or get out. You’ll 
be sorry. If I get into trouble you’ll be to blame!” 

Paul had taken two steps towards the library door. He 


JOURNALIST 


23 


heard the sister say calmly, “If you get into trouble it 
will be your own fault, Louis. You’d better make a clean 
breast of it to father. Your fraternity is a silly little 
imitation. The idea of you High School kids taking girls 
to parties in hacks and staying out until one o’clock in 
the morning! I don’t wonder father is mad when he 
hears of it. But you don’t get any of my allowance. 
Not a cent. Not until you pay me back what you have 
already borrowed.” 

Paul could hear the boy fling himself down on some- 
thing and begin to sob, and the next moment the library 
door was suddenly opened and Esther Darcy stepped 
into the reception room and stood face to face with Paul. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, and stepped back, her face 
aflame. Paul spoke quickly. 

“I beg pardon, Miss Darcy, but — I — I’ve been invited 
in to tea and I was waiting here for your mother to come 
down and ” 

The girl recovered her composure quickly. 

“You have just come in?” 

“No — I — I’ve been here a few moments. I couldn’t 
help hearing what you and your brother said.” 

The girl laughed. “Nothing very bad. I don’t care if 
Louis doesn’t. It’s Mr. Douglas, isn’t it? I’ll call 
mother.” 

But just then Mrs. Darcy came into the room and 
greeted Paul kindly, apologizing for keeping him waiting. 
Mr. Darcy came in while they were talking and they 
were joined a moment later by the other son, Walter, 
who was a student with Esther in the college. 

Tea was announced and they all went out. Louis was 
not present and in reply to a question put by Mr. Darcy, 


24 


PAUL DOUGLAS : 


Esther said he had sent word down from his room that 
he did not feel well enough to eat anything. 

“What’s the matter with the boy?” Darcy asked of 
Mrs. Darcy. 

“I don’t know. He hasn’t seemed to be very well 
lately.” 

“I know what ails him,” Walter spoke up. Walter 
Darcy interested Paul from the first moment he saw him. 
There was something remarkably frank and outspoken 
about him that attracted Paul. 

“Well, what is it?” Darcy asked. Esther was trying 
to telegraph a wireless message to her brother, but he 
spoke up as if he had been wanting this opportunity. 

“Well, I tell you, father, Louis goes too much. There 
are too many parties and functions in the Milton High 
School. Just think of Louis, only seventeen, going to 
dancing parties and receptions and staying up until mid- 
night. It’s nonsense, I think.” 

Darcy frowned and his wife looked amused. 

“Louis needs a good deal of social life. He can’t study 
all the time. And I don’t see any harm in the parties. 
He needs to learn how to behave himself in polite so- 
ciety,” Mrs. Darcy said. 

Mr. Darcy shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. 
Paul asked Walter a question about the college literary 
societies. Before coming to Milton from Westville, Paul 
had heard of the great work done at Hope, in the socie- 
ties, and being literary himself he was truly interested. 

“Better not get Walter started on that subject, Mr. 
Douglas,” said Esther, laughing. “He’s rabid on it.” 

“Well I am,” said Walter, quickly. “And I have good 
reason to be. What with class parties and fraternity 


JOURNALIST 


25 


functions and athletics the literary work in Hope has 
dwindled down almost to nothing. And most of the 
fellows and the girls, too, spend more time and money 
on dances and skating rinks and theaters and parties than 
they do on the combined literary and religious work of 
the college. We have the hardest time to collect our 
dues from the members because by the time we get' 
around there isn’t anything left. I’m disgusted with the 
whole mob. I tell ’em they’ve gone amusement and 
athletic daft. The old college can’t debate or write any- 
thing worth while any more. Its brains have gone into 
its toes and its heels. If it wasn’t my last year I’d quit, 
and go ” 

“Where ?” Darcy asked, as Walter paused a long time. 

“I don’t know, father. Do you know any college that’s 
doing anything decent in a literary way? They’re all 
alike. It’s functions and theaters and athletics gone mad.” 

“You’re exaggerating,” remonstrated Mrs. Darcy. 

“Maybe, mother. But if you had seen the old literary 
societies go to pieces the way I have the last two years 
you wouldn’t wonder. And the girls don’t help. They 
hinder. Who is the girls’ hero in Hope College? Why, 
the fellow who can make an end run and get over the 
line for a touch down. Who gets the applause in chapel ? 
The fellow that won out on the skating rink contest. 
Who is the favorite son of Hope with the girls? At 
present it’s Muggsy Thompson, a semi-professional foot- 
ball player smuggled into college against the rules. His 
picture is in every other girl’s room, so Esther says. And 
last year Farnsworth, of the Juniors, got two articles into 
the Youth’s Companion and won the prize for the best 


26 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


essay in the contest with Middlesex. But no one seemed 
to care and the girls never look twice at him in Chapel.” 

“I don’t think all this is very interesting to Mr. Douglas,” 
Darcy interposed, somewhat coldly, as Walter was going 
on. Walter shut up like a new jack-knife and during 
the rest of the meal volunteered only monosyllables. 

When Paul went away from the Darcys’ that evening 
he carried with him a pleasant memory of the family. 
Darcy and his wife exerted themselves to entertain him 
and succeeded. Esther was an attractive girl and a good 
talker who had learned the first great art of conversation, 
which is to ask the person you are talking to, questions 
about himself. If the questions are honest and if the 
asking of them is really sincere there is no other one 
thing which makes a conversation so interesting. Under 
the circumstances it is not surprising that Paul Douglas, 
who was a somewhat susceptible and romantic youth, 
should carry out of the Darcy house that evening as the 
most vivid impression of all, the memory of Esther 
Darcy’s smiling face and vivacious manner. And he felt 
as if the accidental overhearing of her talk with her 
brother and her knowledge of his sharing in that episode 
had somehow made them better acquainted in a brief time 
than they could otherwise have become. 

As he walked back to his room at the Y. M. C. A. he 
had to pass up the main street of Milton. It was after 
nine o’clock and the shops and saloons were brilliantly 
lighted. Close by one of the largest saloons was a jew- 
eller’s and pawnbroker’s shop which had attracted Paul’s 
notice on his way down to the Police Court. There* was 
an unusually large and brightly gilded bunch of three 
balls hanging out over the sidewalk in front of the place. 


JOURNALIST 


27 


As he went by, Paul saw a boy going in. There was a 
look on his face that called up Esther Darcy. Obeying an 
impulse, which was partly prompted by his instinctive 
reportorial habits, he followed the boy into the shop. 
There were several customers there and the boy stood at 
the end of one of the cases on the counter looking at the 
miscellaneous collection of old watches and flashy pieces 
of jewelry there, giving Paul a good opportunity to look 
at him. The longer he looked the more firmly he was 
convinced that it was Louis Darcy, Esther’s brother. He 
grew so positive of this after a few moments that he 
yielded to another impulse, for which he was very thank- 
ful afterwards, and touched the boy on his shoulder. The 
boy started and looked around at Paul in an attitude of 
unmistakable fear. 

“Excuse me, but isn’t your name Darcy? Louis 
Darcy ?” 

“And what if it is? What business is it of yours?” 

“But are you Louis Darcy?” 

“Yes, I am, and none of your business.” 

“Perhaps not. But I want to talk with you a minute. 
Will you come out on the sidewalk?” 

“No, I don’t know you.” 

“I’m Paul Douglas. I began work on your father’s 
paper today. I took tea at the house tonight. And I 
heard the talk between your sister and yourself and — 
well, I believe I can help you out better than this place 
can.” 

Paul smiled at the boy in such a re-assuring manner 
that Louis, after a moment of irresolution, followed him 
outside. Then Paul said suddenly, 


23 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“Tell me frankly how much you’re in debt. If I have 
the money I’ll let you have it on one condition.” 

Louis was trembling like a child. At last he blurted out, 

“I owe $18. My monthly allowance is only $10. Some 
of the people I owe threaten to see my father about their 
bills. He’ll take me out of school, and put me in the 
press-room of the News if he hears of my debts. And 
I hate newspapers.” 

“Is that all?” 

“No, I’ve got some stuff here I was going to pawn to 
raise the money.” The boy put his hand in his pocket and 
pulled out a number of gold and silver trinkets, including 
two rings, one of them set with pearls and the other a 
ruby. 

“Are these yours ?” 

“All but the rings. They belong to Esther. I was 
going to get them back, of course.” 

Paul stood still, appalled at the idea of such a trans- 
action on the part of a mere lad, for that was all that 
Louis could rightly be called. And there flashed into 
his mind as he stood there outside that pawnbroker’s 
shop the placid air of Mrs. Darcy as she said, “Louis 
needs a good deal of social life. He can’t study all the 
time. And I don’t see any great harm in the parties. 
He needs to learn how to behave himself in polite 
society.” 

That and a memory of Esther Darcy and the possible 
shame that hung over this family prompted the next 
question that Paul put to the boy as they stood facing 
each other on that memorable night in the life history 
of each of them. 


JOURNALIST 


29 


CHAPTER II. 

“Suppose I let you have the eighteen dollars as a loan, 
will you give up the fraternity?” 

Paul put the question boldly enough, but he was alto- 
gether uncertain as to Louis’ attitude. It was a great 
relief to him when the boy said eagerly, “yes, I will. 
I don’t care very much about it. And I’ll pay the money 
back as soon as I get caught up with my allowance.” 

“All right. Here you are.” Paul pulled out his pocket- 
book and handed over the money. The amount nearly 
exhausted his resources, for he had come away from 
home with only twenty-five dollars, all told, and had 
paid a week’s rent on his room at the Y. M. C. A. in 
advance. Louis grasped at the money with a childish 
eagerness, that was painfully apparent. 

“I’ll pay it back, all right. I won’t forget it.” 

“And of course you will return those rings and I 
would advise you to tell your father,” Paul said, by way 
of suggestion. 

“You don’t know my father. He wouldn’t understand 
this sort of thing,” Louis said, sullenly. “And besides, 
he would be mad at you for letting me have the money. 

Paul walked along by the side of the boy in silence. 
That part of the outcome of his action had not occurred 
to him. 

“Still I think that’s what you ought to do.” 

“You won’t tell him about this, will you?” Louis 
spoke in a tone of alarm. 


30 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“No,” Paul answered slowly. “No, I don’t feel as if 
that is necessary.” 

“I’m willing to tell Esther.” 

“I don’t think that’s necessary, either,” Paul hastily 
replied, embarrassed at the thought. 

“If she misses the rings she’ll ask questions,” Louis 
persisted. “And if she wants to know, what can I tell 
her?” 

Paul did not know what to say. He disliked the idea 
of Esther knowing anything of the event and at the same 
time he felt as if Louis ought to let some one in the 
family know of what he had done. 

“Why not tell your mother?” Paul suddenly spoke as 
he suddenly thought. 

“All right ; mother won’t make a fuss, no matter what 
else she does. Only she’s likely to tell father and ” 

“O well, you arrange that,” Paul spoke a little impa- 
tiently. “The main thing is to quit your fraternity and 
tend to your studies.” 

“I’ll quit the fraternity, all right.” Louis laughed as 
if a great weight were off his mind. “You haven’t got 
a cigarette, have you? I feel awful hungry for a good 
smoke.” 

“No, I haven’t, and I advise you to quit the habit. 
It’s no good.” 

“You and Esther are a team on that,” Louis said flip- 
pantly. 

“I mean it,” Paul said shortly. “I ought to have made 
that a condition in letting you have the money.” 

Louis laughed and Paul felt angry. But as they parted 
at the next corner, the boy said earnestly enough, 

“I’ll not forget. I’ll pay up all right. I tell you I 


JOURNALIST 


31 


appreciate what you’ve done for me. Say ! What made 
you do it?” 

“I don’t know exactly.” 

Louis stared at Paul curiously. 

“I’m much obliged just the same. And say! I think 
I’ll get the rings back before Esther misses them. She 
only wears them on special occasions. Good night. I 
won’t forget.” 

“Good night,” replied Paul. All the rest of the way up 
to his room he was asking himself if he had done a wise 
thing. “Still, it’s better than if the boy had got involved 
in that pawnbroker’s shop with those rings.” 

He went into his room, turned on the light and took out 
of the little table drawer a pile of manuscript. It was 
typewritten and represented a story he had composed just 
before leaving home for Milton. He sat down at the 
table and began to go over the manuscript, making a few 
changes and corrections. It was nearly midnight before 
he finished, and when he was through, he felt strangely 
tired, and instead of sealing up the manuscript in the 
envelope directed to the magazine publisher, he put it 
into his coat pocket. He had a confused feeling as he 
dropped to sleep, that the leaves of the manuscript were 
not in order, and he felt troubled over it, but seemed to 
lack energy to correct anything more, although several 
times during the night as he awoke from a restless slum- 
ber he was conscious that his last remembrance of the 
manuscript was anxiety concerning its paging and its 
general appearance. 

When morning came at last Paul knew dimly that he 
was in the grip of a fever of some kind. But by the ex- 
ercise of great will he got up and went down to the News 


32 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


building. He could not eat anything and during the 
entire hour at the Court House he was in torture. Every- 
thing around him was confused and uncertain. He kept 
saying to himself “I must go on. Eve only got two dol- 
lars, and at the end of the week I’ll not have a cent.” He 
had a great horror of debt, and his father’s experience in 
business had made him fear. He handed in his stuff and 
then went over to the restaurant and drank a cup of 
coffee, and went out and walked resolutely up and down 
the main street. By two o’clock he felt unable to stand 
it any longer and was afraid he would faint, so he stag- 
gered up to his room again. 

As he was going through the office the Secretary noticed 
him. What’s the matter, Douglas ?” 

“Don’t know. I feel kind of queer. Guess I’ll go up 
and lie down awhile.” 

“All right. Be up to see you pretty soon.” 

When the secretary went up to Paul’s room an hour 
later, he found him lying on his bed dressed, groaning, 
and with his face flushed with a high fever. The Secre- 
tary examined him gravely and went down and phoned 
for a doctor. When the doctor came he advised taking 
Paul at once to the hospital, as the Association had no 
convenience for sick members. 

So Paul was carried down to the doctor’s carriage, as 
the doctor was going over to the hospital for an operation. 
As Paul was being bundled up, he asked the Secretary to 
send word to Darcy and let him know what had hap- 
pened. Accordingly, Darcy got the message from the 
Y. M. C. A. about four o’clock, and obeying an impulse 
that was a part of the best side of him, he took a trolley 


JOURNALIST 


33 


and went out to the hospital, reaching it just as Paul 
was being put to bed in one of the wards. 

Darcy expressed his regret, and assured Paul of good 
care for his father’s and mother’s sake. At that Paul 
broke down (he was strangely weak) and asked Darcy 
to do him a favor. 

“Pm awful sorry this has happened, Mr. Darcy. I’ve 
got a manuscript story in my coat pocket up there and 
I wish you would take it and look it over, and see that 
it’s paged correctly and send it to Scribner’s. Will you?” 

Darcy promised, and took the manuscript with him 
when he left the hospital, feeling strangely perturbed 
over Paul’s request, but not knowing how to refuse it 
under the circumstances. Before he had got outside the 
hospital grounds, Paul was in the clutches of a great 
fever that bore him off on the breast of that mighty tide 
where so many have been carried so far they have never 
come back. 

Now to understand what happened in the next few 
weeks it is necessary to know the inner springs of Albert 
Darcy’s somewhat contradictory personality. Have you 
not known occasionally a man who preserved a very 
narrow and childish weakness in his character, no matter 
how old he grew to be, or how strong he might be in 
some special ways? Mr. Albert Darcy was such a man. 
He had permitted a childish and absurd jealousy of other 
men who were successful in a literary way to live with 
him for over thirty years. Think of this man, a strong 
purposeful, original, and as the world judges such mat- 
ters, successful editor of a large daily paper, who acted 
and felt like a little boy on certain occasions when his 
bitterness and his ambition met and looked one another 


34 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


in the face. Knowing fully this fact now, and remember- 
ing how Darcy’s vanity and ambition had been goaded by 
Paul’s unusual ability, it is not at all strange that Darcy 
yielded to a remarkable temptation which seized him 
before he had read clear through a single page of Paul’s 
story. 

He had scarcely begun the reading before he was struck 
by the close resemblance between Paul’s story and one 
which he, Darcy, was beginning to write himself. By a 
strange but not unparalleled coincidence they had chosen 
the same motive but had developed the plot in entirely 
different ways. Paul was a methodical writer and had 
dated the time of beginning the writing of his story, on 
the first page. Darcy saw at a glance that the date was 
at least two months ahead of his own story. He also saw 
more and more clearly as he went on, that the one essen- 
tial element in the real interest of the plot had been dis- 
covered and used by Paul and missed altogether by 
himself. It was one of those subtle and delicate handlings 
of a plot which make all the difference between success 
and failure in a short story. The difference between his 
own story and Paul’s so far as the general plot was con- 
cerned was very slight. The difference in the matter of 
handling certain situations was very great. It was the 
one touch of genius for story writing which Paul pos- 
sessed and Darcy did not. 

The knowledge of all this as he read on filled the 
jealous soul of Darcy with a kind of madness. Under 
the impulse of this feeling he reasoned thus with him- 
self, or rather he simply yielded to the temptation, “I will 
incorporate this handling of the plot into my own story 
with certain additions which I find suggested by it and 


JOURNALIST 


35 


submit it to the publisher. Then I will send Paul’s story 
later on, if mine is accepted. And I will submit mine to 
McClure’s, and his to Scribner’s.” 

He began the changes in his story that night and by the 
end of the week had completed the manuscript and sent 
it off. When a week later he received a letter from the 
editors enclosing a check and a word of appreciation, his 
feeling of shame over the theft was so small that he even 
felt justified in the act. Contrary to usual custom, the 
editors wrote that the story would be used in their forth- 
coming monthly issue, which was a short story fiction 
number. A week later, Darcy mailed Paul’s story to 
Scribner’s and then, strange to say, he experienced a 
feeling of relief almost as if he had done his duty. There 
are certain stages in wrong doing when one of the subtlest 
temptations ever devised by the devil is the self-deception 
experienced by the wrong doer who for a little while 
feels self compassion, as if the circumstances of life had 
combined to force him into his act, and he was not to 
blame for what he did. 

Meanwhile Paul lay in the hospital all unconscious of 
this soul tragedy, much of the time delirious. He did 
not even know his own mother when she came on from 
Westville and installed herself in one of the boarding 
cottages near the hospital. One day he opened his eyes 
and saw her sitting in the room. Mrs. Douglas smiled 
at him calmly, as if she had not been sitting there with 
mother agony for several weeks, watching her boy as he 
lay trembling on the border land of the flesh and the 
spirit. 

Paul asked a few questions. Among others, “How 
long have I been here?” 


36 


PAUL DOUGLAS; 


“Over six weeks. But you are going to get well now.” 

He seemed satisfied and dropped off to sleep smiling at 
his mother. Within a few days, he had grown stronger 
so rapidly that the doctor allowed visitors. Mrs. Darcy 
called one day and insisted on Mrs. Douglas going over 
to her room to rest. 

“Fve come over to read to Paul, and I want you to 
have a good rest, Margaret/’ 

As Mrs. Douglas went out, Mrs. Darcy told Paul how 
glad they all were that he was getting so strong again. 
But before beginning the reading, she said she wanted to 
thank Paul for what he had done for Louis. Louis had 
confessed to her all about the pawnbroker’s shop and 
Paul’s loan of the money. He had waited until that very 
morning when his savings from his monthly allowance 
for two months had amounted to the sum Paul had loaned 
him. Hearing that his mother was going over to see 
Paul that afternoon, he had sent the money by her. She 
put it down on the table with some pride, by the side of 
a number of letters which had come in for Paul the day 
before. 

“Louis has surprised us all by the way he has taken 
up his studies in the High School. Mr. Darcy is very 
much pleased. I had no idea that the fraternity was 
such a source of temptation to him. It was a great shock 
to me to learn what he was going to do with Esther’s 
rings. Esther missed them before Louis brought them 
back and he told her.” 

Paul wanted to ask if Mr. Darcy knew all about it 
Lut did not venture to ask. Mrs. Darcy in her next 
remark told him. 

“We haven’t said anything to Mr. Darcy yet. Louis 


JOURNALIST 


37 


is in mortal fear of his father, that he would take him 
out of school and put him into the News. Now that 
Louis has paid back what you let him have, I think he 
will tell his father. Don’t you think he ought to?” 

“Yes.” Paul was astonished that Mrs. Darcy should 
ask him such a question, but it revealed her small 
sense of the responsibility she felt in the shaping of her 
boy’s character. 

“Well, I don’t want to tire you all out with this. 
Would you like to have me read to you a little?” 

“Yes, very much. I feel quite strong. I don’t think 
the doctor ought to keep me here much longer.” 

“He says you can get out in a few days,” Mrs. Darcy 
smiled. “I’ve brought over a copy of McClure’s. Their 
short story number. I want to read one of Mr. Darcy’s 
stories to you. We think it is the best he has ever done. 
We feel quite proud of it.” 

Mrs. Darcy began to read. Paul lay back restfully, 
prepared to enjoy the reading. He felt strong and happy 
in the thought of what he would do with his own writing 
when he got out again. 

Mrs. Darcy had been reading only a few minutes when 
Paul had a curious feeling that he had heard the story 
before somewhere. He listened with all his might and 
grew more and more bewildered. Where had he heard 
that? It was very familiar somehow, — the characters 
were new so far as their names were concerned, but their 
actions and the general run of the plot were like old 
acquaintances. Gradually he began to call up the fact 
of his illness and the time that preceded it. His mind 
went back to the day when he had gone up to his room 
after his meeting with Louis and then his working over 


38 


PAUL DOUGLAS : 


his manuscript and the strange feeling that followed as 
he went to bed. Then he recalled his being taken to the 
hospital by the doctor and Mr. Darcy’s call, and — and — 
Mrs. Darcy read on, getting into a very exciting and 
important development of the plot, and like a flash it 
came over Paul that the last he had seen of his own 
manuscript, Mr. Darcy had taken it to page up and send 
to Scribner’s. Yet his bewilderment increased as he lis- 
tened to Mrs. Darcy — this was Mr. Darcy’s story he was 
hearing. It had the same motive, the same purpose, and 
what was more astonishing than all else, it had the same 
general plot, almost if not quite precisely identical with 
his own. 

Paul listened now with breathless interest. He was 
groping in his own mind for an explanation of such a 
remarkable circumstance. Would Darcy’s story end as 
his ended? If so — he hardly dared think what his sus- 
picions pointed towards, but he would wait and see. 
There was only one possible way for the story to end 
as he had worked it out. Mrs. Darcy read on with a con- 
scious tone of pride in her husband’s literary ability. 
When she ended and looked up with a smile, Paul 
breathed deeply. The story had closed exactly as he 
had written it, and his mind was in a tempest over it. 

“How do you like it? Isn’t it clever?” Mrs. Darcy 
asked him. 

Paul nodded. He could not trust himself to speak. 
“I’m afraid it has tired you,” said Mrs. Darcy, quickly. 
“I ought not to stay any longer.” She turned to go, and 
Paul murmured a few words of thanks for the reading. 

“Oh, that’s all right. I’m very glad to do something. 
Oh, and by the way, Esther sent her best wishes and hoped 


JOURNALIST 


39 


you would be out and at work very soon. Any other 
time when you would like to have me read to you I’ll be 
glad to come, but you won’t be here much longer. I’ll 
leave the magazine here. Good-bye.” And Mrs. Darcy 
was gone. 

Paul lay there going over the story and his perplexity 
increased the more he thought over the matter. Finally 
he reached over to the table and picked up the magazine 
and started to read the story as it was printed. It was 
against the doctor’s orders for him to read very much 
yet, but he could not resist the temptation to go over the 
entire story again. When his mother came in she found 
him absorbed in the magazine and noticed the excitement 
in his face. She took the magazine away from him and 
said : 

“Boy, you have been reading too much. You must 
obey orders. Rest a little while and then I’ll open your 
letters and read a few of them.” 

Paul lay back and closed his eyes and tried not to 
think, but the excitement was too strong in him. His 
mother was surprised, but thought it was only a little 
sign of excitement from his visit with Mrs. Darcy. 
After a while she picked up the little pile of letters on 
the table and said, “Here are two letters from Scribner’s 
Magazine. Would you like to hear them first? Have 
you been sending something to Scribner’s?” 

“Yes.” 

“One of them is dated five weeks ago and the other 
last week. Shall I read the first one first?” 

“Yes, please.” Paul was sitting up excitedly and his 
mother said, 

“I’m afraid it is too much excitement for you.” 


40 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“No, no, mother, go on,” 

“Well,” Mrs. Douglas spoke, reluctantly, “I’ll not 

read any of the others, they can wait. They say ” 

“Mr. Paul Douglas, Milton. 

“Dear Sir: We accept with much pleasure your inter- 
esting story entitled THE ALTERNATIVE. We shall 
probably use it in our Holiday number. Thanking you 
for submitting this to us, we enclose check in payment, 
and shall be glad to hear from you again. 

“Very cordially, 

“The Editors.” 

A yellow slip of paper was held up by Mrs. Douglas. 

“Fifty dollars ! Paul ! The idea ! I am proud of you !”' 

Paul lay back on his pillow, speechless. 

“Read the other letter, mother,” he finally whispered. 

Mrs. Douglas opened the other letter from Scribner’s 
and began to read: 

“Mr. Paul Douglas, Milton. 

“Dear Sir: A copy of McClure’s magazine lies before 
me containing a short story written by Mr. Albert Darcy, 
editor of The Milton Daily News of your city. The 
story which you submitted to us a few weeks ago and 
which we accepted, sending you a check for $50 for it, 
is so palpably and openly a plagiarism of Mr. Darcy’s 
story that it will be impossible for us to use it in our 
columns. We are therefore returning your manuscript 
to you, and venture to suggest that it might be just as 
well for you not to cash the check you received. 

“Very truly yours, 

“The Editor.” 

Mrs. Douglas looked up at Paul. “Why, Paul, you 
don’t mean to say ” 


JOURNALIST 


41 


“Mother, there is a mistake of some kind. Surely you 
don’t think I would do a thing like that ?” 

“You don’t need to,” Mrs. Douglas said, confidently. 
“But it’s very strange. What will you do?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“How could such a thing happen?” 

Paul was silent. 

“Do you have any idea ?” 

“Yes, mother, but I can’t — I don’t want to ” 

“You won’t let it worry you?” His mother laid her 
hand on his head anxiously. 

“No, no, mother. I think not.” 

And Mrs. Douglas, who was a wise and loving woman, 
forebore to press the matter farther. 

The next day Paul asked her to return the check to 
Scribner’s with a brief note simply asserting his own 
freedom from plagiarism and offering no explanation. 

Then for the next few days Paul recovered his strength 
gradually. 

When he was able to go back to the News’ office he 
had made up his mind quite definitely as to his course. 
He was absolutely frank in his own open-hearted char- 
acteristic of plain speech. 

When he went into the office of the city editor on the 
day he resumed his duties as a reporter, he faced Darcy 
squarely, and after the first few words of formal greeting 
which Darcy used, Paul said bluntly: 

“I was very much interested in that story in McClure’s. 
But don’t you think, Mr. Darcy, that you ought to have 
given credit in a preface to the source of your ideas?” 

Darcy looked black as a thunder cloud. 

“What do you mean?” he said, savagely. 


42 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“You know well enough!” Paul replied, contemptuous- 
ly. Then he added : “I don’t care to work any longer in 
such company. Pm through with the News.” 

“Oh, very well. I suppose you’ll tell everyone!” 

“Tell everyone?” 

“About the story. Your version.” 

Paul was too astonished to say anything. Darcy red^ 
dened and finally burst out: “Well, are you going to tell 
everyone ?” 

“No ! What good would that do ? You know you stole 
my plot, and got credit for it. If you can find any joy 
in a thing like that, you are welcome to it. But as for 
telling anyone, what good would that do either of us?” 

Darcy stared at him and choked down some kind of 
reply. 

Paul looked at him a moment and then turned and 
went out. He walked immediately over to the Gazette 
office and asked for a position there. 

The Gazette city editor had heard of his scoop on the 
senatorial appointment, and readily accepted him, putting 
him on the local and railroad news run. He soon famil- 
iarized himself with his work, and did it so well that the 
Gazette advanced him to a place in the city editor’s office 
as assistant. 

During the next three weeks he did not even meet 
Darcy. The incident of the stolen story rankled in his 
mind. He hated Darcy for it, and wondered many times 
how the man could possibly enjoy a literary triumph 
founded on a theft. 

Then one evening as he came into the Y. M. C. A. to 
get his mail he found a letter from Scribner’s which 
astonished him. It read as follows: 


JOURNALIST 


4 ? 


“Mr. Paul Douglas, Milton. 

“Dear Sir: We write to offer apology for a mistake 
on our part in regard to the story submitted to us by you, 
some four months ago. Mr. Albert Darcy, city editor of 
The Milton Daily News, has written us that he stole the 
idea for the plot of his story from you. Of course now 
that McClure’s have already printed the story which Mr. 
Darcy sent them, we cannot very well use yours, but if 
you will favor us with some other manuscript as good 
as your original one, we shall be happy to use it. With 
regards, 

“Very truly yours, 

“Th£ Editors.” 

Paul read the letter through. What had caused Darcy’s 
action ? It was totally unexpected. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, he went out of the 
Y. M. C. A. and started for Darcy’s home. The editor 
had left his office at the News, as his regular habit was, 
at 5 o’clock. Paul was excited to an unusual degree as 
he rang the bell, and when Esther opened the door his 
excitement increased as he inquired if her father was 
at home. 


44 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


CHAPTER III. 

Esther Darcy was surprised to see Paul, and he noted 
the color as it deepened in her face. He had not called at 
the Darcys since his first invitation there, as his illness 
had followed that visit almost immediately. But Esther 
had learned through her mother of his treatment of Louis. 

“Yes, father is in,” she said in reply to Paul’s question. 

She asked him to be seated in the reception room and 
went out to call her father. It seemed to Paul that she 
hesitated a little as she left the room as if she wanted 
to speak to him about something, but she went out and 
a moment later Darcy came in. He shut the door and 
eyed Paul in such a way that Paul was not certain 
whether he cared to meet him or not. 

“I came to see you, Mr. Darcy, about this.” Paul 
held out the letter from Scribner’s and Darcy took it, 
read it, and handed it back without a word of comment. 

“Well — if this letter is true, I felt as if I ought to see 
you about it — and ” 

Darcy spoke almost contemptuously. “Hadn’t we bet- 
ter consider the incident closed? There’s nothing more 
to say, is there?” 

“Only I don’t understand ” 

“You don’t have to. I’ve made full apology. What 
more do you want?” 

“Nothing. Only ” 

“If you want to know, I’m willing to say this. My 
boy, Louis, confessed to me the other day that you let 


JOURNALIST 


45 


him have the money to pay his debts. Well, I can’t 
stand an obligation like that.” 

“He has paid back the money.” 

“That makes no difference. Let’s say no more about it. 
The whole thing is past history.” 

Darcy spoke so shortly that Paul said no more, al- 
though the incident always remained among the mysteri- 
ous events of his life. But Darcy was not like other 
men and his next remark astonished Paul again. 

“Will you come back into the News?” 

“I can’t. Pm with the Gazette now.” 

“How much do they give you ?” 

“Ten a week.” 

“I’ll give you fifteen.” 

“I can’t leave for six months. I’ve promised to stay 
for that time. 

“What?” 

“Mr. Grange asked me to stay six months if he was 
satisfied.” 

“What if you’re not satisfied?” 

“I’ve no reason to feel otherwise.” 

“But, of course, you’ve not signed anything.” 

“No. But I’ve promised.” 

Darcy looked deeply annoyed, as he felt. If there was 
any man in Milton he hated, it was Grange, the city 
editor of the Gazette. A newspaper feud had existed 
between the two men for years. The feeling between 
them was fanned on every possible occasion. One reason 
Grange had made the unusual contract with Paul was a 
suspicion that Darcy would try to get Paul back. He 
shrewdly guessed that whatever had led to Paul’s leav- 
ing the News, Darcy’s appreciation of Paul’s unusual 


46 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


aptitude for newspaper work would lead to an attempt 
on Darcy’s part to get him back again. 

“Well, if you ever want to change to the News again, 
the place is open for you,” Darcy finally said. He knew 
Paul well enough to know he would not break his prom- 
ise to Grange. 

Paul thanked him and rose to go. Just then Mrs* 
Darcy came in and greeted him. “Won’t you stay to 
tea, Mr. Douglas? We are just sitting down. Be so 
glad to have you.” 

Paul looked doubtfully at Mr. Darcy, but he empha- 
sized Mrs. Darcy’s invitation cordially enough so Paul 
accepted and enjoyed the occasion, although Mr. Darcy 
seemed preoccupied and Esther was unusually grave and 
silent. Before the meal was over, Louis excused him- 
self and started out of the room. 

“Where are you going, Louis?” his father asked, 
abruptly. 

“Pm going to see George Randall,” said Louis. He 
waited a moment as if expecting his father to speak 
again, but Darcy did not say any more, and Louis went 
out. 

“What does Louis go out for every night? He hasn’t 
been home now for several nights,” Darcy asked his wife. 

Mrs. Darcy answered lightly, “O, it’s nothing. He 
goes out to see Randall or some of his High School 
friends. You can’t keep a boy like Louis at home every 
night.” 

“Every night!” exclaimed Walter. “If there has been 
one night when Louis was at home during the last two 
weeks, I’ve forgotten it. I don’t believe he is at George 
Randall’s at all. I know he ” 


JOURNALIST 


47 


Walter was going on in his usual frank manner, when 
he was checked by a look on Esther’s face. At the same 
moment Darcy, who, to Paul’s indignation, always seemed 
prejudiced against Walter, said sharply, “I don’t imagine 
this is of any special interest outside the family, Walter.” 
Walter subsided and the rest of the meal was decidedly 
uncomfortable to Paul, who felt that Darcy’s remark 
classed him as an utter stranger. After what he had done 
for Louis with the full knowledge of the Darcys, it hurt 
Paul to be thus classified. 

He excused himself as soon as he could after the tea 
was over. Mr. Darcy had gone upstairs, Walter was 
deep in his books in the library, Mrs. Darcy at that 
moment was summoned to the telephone, so that as he 
went out into the hall there was no one but Esther to bid 
•him farewell. She spoke to him hurriedly as if she feared 
interruption. 

“Mr. Douglas, Pm afraid Louis is going wrong again. 
He was frightened into behaving better when you helped 
him, and it was so good of you. But now he’s going wrong 

and I wondered if ” She paused and looked at Paul 

anxiously. Paul was embarrassed and hardly knew what 
to say. 

“Of course, if I can do anything ” 

“I believe you could. Louis is grateful for what you 
did before. But when he went to father and confessed, 
father was very harsh with him.” 

“What can I do?” asked Paul, tamely. 

“Couldn’t you get him away from his associations ?” 

“I don’t know what they are.” 

“Walter says Louis goes to the theater or vaudeville 
every night.” 


48 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


Paul felt and looked embarrassed. And Esther noticed 
his manner. 

“Of course I know it’s asking a great deal. But I’ve 
no influence over Louis any more. He fears father and 
he deceives mother, and Walter is out of patience with 

him. But the boy is going wrong, and ” The girl 

paused in real distress of mind. Paul was not able to 
resist her appeal. He said quickly, 

‘Til do anything I can, Miss Darcy. But what can I 
do?” 

“Get him away from the vaudevilles, for one thing.” 

“But there are four of them. I don’t know which of 
them he goes to.” 

“You could find him, couldn’t you?” Esther asked, 
wistfully. 

“I could go to all of them in turn.” 

“Yes, yes.” 

“But what if he resents my coming to him? He will 
say it is none of my business, as it really isn’t, you know.” 

“But it’s somebody’s business. And it’s dreadful to 
me to see how Louis has gone down lately. He has lost 
his love of study and he will fail in his High School work, 
and it is father’s ambition to have the boys literary and 
scholarly.” 

Paul wanted to say that he thought the persons most 
interested in the boy were his father and mother, and 
that if anyone undertook to correct his habits it should 
be some one in the family, but he did not know just 
how to say it to Esther. 

He looked down at the rug in the hall, and then looked 
up at Esther. 

“Well, I’ll do what I can for your sake.” 


JOURNALIST 


49 


Esther smiled and blushed at the same time. “Do it 
for Louis’ sake, Mr. Douglas; excuse me for keeping 
you waiting so long. Good night!” 

Paul said good night and went out, hardly knowing 
whether he ought to have promised Esther anything. 
And the farther he walked and the nearer he came to 
the down-town district, the more in doubt he grew as 
to his course. It seemed to him that it would be a very 
delicate thing to interfere with Louis Darcy’s habits, 
and from what he knew of the boy he felt sure he would 
resent any attempt in that direction. 

But when he found himself at last in front of one of 
the vaudevilles he stopped and argued with himself and 
all his arguments at last came back to the promise he 
had made Esther Darcy, that he would do something. He 
went to the little ticket office, bought his ticket and went 
in. 

It was a small room and it was crowded, mostly with 
boys and young men and women. There was a sprinkling 
of older people, but for the most part it was an audience 
of young people between sixteen and twenty. There 
were clerks with their girls and, to Paul’s surprise, a 
younger set than these. 

The room was darkened for moving pictures and he 
could not tell whether Louis was present or not. The 
show had been in progress for a little while and the 
particular pictures on the screen were in a series which 
described the adventures of a drunken painter walking 
through a narrow city street with a ladder over his shoul- 
ders and a pail of red paint in each hand. 

The adventures of this painter and the people he met 
were really very funny, if one could forget the tragedy 


50 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


that always lies back of every drunkard, and the audience 
laughed uproariously until the climax came. This con- 
sisted in the painter falling through the front windows of 
a fashionable restaurant, in among a company of finely 
dressed people who were having luncheon together. 

Then the program changed to some really beautiful 
pictures of scenery in the Rocky mountains. When that 
series was ended there was a vulgar coon song by a 
negro, who accompanied himself with a clog dance. And 
the program was closed by a sleight-of-hand performance 
and a thin distribution among the audience of a cheap 
candy, taken, apparently, out of a stove-pipe hat by the 
sleight-of-hand man. 

These last two numbers were given with the lights 
turned on and during that time Paul looked for Louis, 
but could not find him. He satisfied himself that he was 
not there and went out on the sidewalk, going slowly 
along, looking at the drifting groups of boys and girls 
and wondering where they all came from. 

The next vaudeville was only a block distant. He 
bought his ticket and went in and had just taken a seat 
when he saw Louis seated two rows in front of him. He 
was talking with a young girl and they were both laugh- 
ing at the scene on the stage, which represented a drunken 
tramp being run over by an automobile. There was a 
boy sitting next to Louis and after the tramp had been 
cut in two by the automobile, to everybody’s great amuse- 
ment, Paul heard Louis call this boy George. The girl 
sitting by Louis also spoke to him, calling him George, 
and Paul had no difficulty in understanding that she 
was George Randall’s sister, for at the tea table that 
evening her name had been mentioned as a member of 


JOURNALIST 


51 


Louis’ class in the High School. George was accom- 
panied also by a girl about the age of his sister and the 
combined ages of these four children was not much over 
fifty years. 

Paul was no philosopher, and had had very little world 
experience, but his home life in the little town of West- 
ville had been so strictly developed by a father and 
mother who had old-fashioned ideas about keeping their 
children young as long as possible that he found it diffi- 
cult to understand the modern view of mothers like 
Mrs. Darcy. 

He was honestly perplexed, as he sat there, as to his 
duty toward Louis. This was not like the pawnbroker’s 
shop incident when he seemed to have some excuse for 
interfering with the boy’s conduct. The presence of the 
girls also added to Paul’s indecision. If Louis had been 
alone he might have ventured to speak to him, but under 
the circumstances he hesitated. He waited until the 
performance was over, still uncertain about what he 
ought to do. Louis and Randall came out with the girls 
and strolled along in the direction of Randall’s home. 
Paul waited a moment near the theater and then went 
the other way, still perplexed and wondering if he had 
not made a great mistake to promise Esther that he would 
do something to help reclaim her brother. 

He went past the Y. M. C. A. building, but instead of 
going up to his room, he walked slowly on. Afterwards 
he recalled the fact that he was walking out towards the 
Darcys’, but at first he did not think of the direction. 
He had arranged no set speech or form of words to use 
when he met Louis, and being very honest with himself, 
he frankly acknowledged that he did not care half so 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


• 52 


much about Louis as about his sister. That was the 
real cause of his interest in Louis. He had seen Esther 
Darcy only twice, but each time the incident of Louis had 
come into the meeting and it had hastened acquaintance. 
He did not believe he was in love with Esther, but she 
was, so far, the only girl he knew in Milton, and she 
was in his thoughts very often. He knew that if he could 
do anything for Louis she would be grateful to him. But 
what could he do for the boy? Louis was high spirited 
and vain and selfish to a degree, spoiled by his mother 
and neglected by his father and scolded by his older 
brother, a boy who had already broken with childhood, 
although he was not much more than a child in years. 
Forced into an unnatural development by a false system 
of education which makes children in their ’teens silly 
copyists of grown-up men and women, and taught the 
immense desirability of getting into society when they 
ought to be getting into their little beds to sleep. 

Paul was within a block of the Darcys’ when he 
realized fully in what part of the city he was. He stopped 
a moment and then went on until he came to the Darcy 
home, his mind suddenly made up as to one point. 

It was after ten o’clock and he walked up and down 
the side-walk across the street from the house, waiting 
for Louis. He had waited fifteen minutes when Louis 
came around the corner whistling. 

Paul crossed the street and met him just as he was 
turning up the walk leading across the lawn to the front 
door. 

“O Louis, I want to speak to you a minute,” Paul said, 
still without any plan of approaching the subject. 

“That you, Mr. Douglas? All right. What is it?” 


JOURNALIST 


53 


There was an electric light on the corner and Paul 
noted Louis’ careless, weak face. He had been smoking 
a cigarette and still had the last half inch of it between 
his teeth. The boy’s very carelessness, his don’t care 
attitude, his absence of all seriousness of mentality, ir- 
ritated Paul and provoked an antagonism that got in the 
way of helpfulness. 

“I wanted to speak to you about, about ” 

Louis looked at him curiously. He had not the slight- 
est hint of Paul’s object in speaking to him. 

“About what?” 

“About the vaudeville,” Paul blurted out suddenly. 

“Do you want my opinion of it?” Louis laughed. It’s 
bully. At the Royal there’s a ballet scene that’s the real 
thing. You ought to see that. Don’t the newspaper 
fellows get tickets?” 

Paul angrily interrupted. “I don’t want your opinion 
of the show. I want to speak to you about not going.” 

“Not going!” 

“Yes. I don’t believe it’s doing you any good.” 

“What business is it of yours, Mr. Douglas?” Louis 
spoke, flaring up at once. He threw the bit of cigarette 
down on the walk. A red spot deepened on each cheek. 

“It’s none of my business, perhaps.” Paul was regain- 
ing some of his regular self-possession and spoke calmly 
and persuasively. “I’m only speaking to you as a friend. 
The vaudeville is doing you harm ” 

“How do you know it is?” 

“Esther ” Paul spoke before he thought. It was an 

unfortunate allusion and Louis flew into a passion. 

“Esther ! So she’s been talking to you about me again. 
I suppose you’ve been going over my affairs all the eve- 


54 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


ning. It’s a pity you came away so early. It’s only half 
past ten.” 

Paul was mad, not only at the words, but at the man- 
ner of Louis as he spoke. He put his hand on Louis' 
shoulder and gripped him. It was not at all a gentle 
touch, for Paul had been a member of the Westville High 
School football team and had kept up his training in 
great part at the Y. M. C. A. since coming to Milton. 

“Look here you I’ve not been here all the 

evening. I left a few minutes after tea was over. Esther 
simply asked me to see if ” 

“Let go of me, will you?” Louis squirmed out from 
under Paul’s muscular hand which had relaxed its grip 
almost as soon as it had been made. The boy went on 
sullenly. “I say it’s none of your business, nor Esther’s, 
if I go to the vaudeville. I can take care of myself 
without your interference.” 

“I don’t mean to interfere,” Paul went on, determined 
to control himself, “but I’m sure the vaudeville is harm- 
ful to you. It isn’t a right place for boys and girls to 
go together.” 

“What do you know about it? Have you and Esther 
been ?” 

“No. But you and George Randall’s sister have been, 
and I say it’s not a proper place for ” 

“So you’ve been spying on me, have you? It’s a mean, 
sneaking thing to do, and if you weren’t so much stronger 
than I am, I’d strike you.” 

Louis spoke in a passion, holding no check on himself. 
There was just enough truth in what he said to take 
the reply out of Paul’s mouth. With a great effort he 
controlled his temper. 


JOURNALIST 


55 


“Maybe I had no business to go to the show to find you, 
Louis. But I did it to help you. Haven't I been your 
friend before?" 

“Yes." Louis spoke sullenly again. “I understand 
now why. I didn't at the time. It’s a case of Esther." 

Paul lost his temper again. Ordinarily he was an un- 
usually self-possessed young man. But when he did get 
angry he was angry in earnest. The truth in Louis' 
insolent taunt made any convincing answer to it impos- 
sible. He was so afraid of striking Louis that he backed 
away from him, but the movement was misunderstood by 
Louis, who thought Paul was bracing himself to hit him. 
He ran up the walk towards the door and turned around 
on the porch steps. “Better mind your own business, 
Mr. Douglas. I’ll mind mine." 

Paul looked at him a moment, then turned and walked 
away, calling himself a fool for having made his promise 
to Esther. By the time he had reached his room at the 
Y. M. C. A. he had cooled off a little, but as he sat down 
and reviewed the events of the evening he blushed at 
himself to think how poorly he had come off. He had 
prided himself a good deal on his first encounter with 
Louis and had more than once complacently given him- 
self credit for unusual generosity towards the boy. But 
tonight he had lost his temper and appeared in anything 
but the light of a reclaimer of youth gone wrong. 

“What shall I say to Miss Darcy?" he asked himself. 
“Of course I've lost what little influence I had with Louis 
now. I cannot do anything for him any more. What a 
fool I was to lose my temper. It gave him the advan- 
tage." 

Paul groaned in spirit over his memory of the affair. 


56 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


He was proud hearted and knew that he was usually 
self-possessed. He despised sudden exhibitions of temper 
in other people and in the rare moments when he gave 
way to the same weakness he heartily scored himself. 
But he saw no other course open to him now, except to 
go to Esther and tell her frankly how he had failed. 

So with his usual habit of prompt action he went the 
next evening to see Esther. When the servant ushered 
him into the front room Esther rose and came to greet 
him. There was a young man standing by the piano 
tuning a violin. Esther introduced him to Paul as Mr. 
Bayliss. Later in the evening Paul learned that he was 
a member of the Junior Class of the Fine Arts Depart- 
ment at Hope College. Through the Library door he 
could see Mrs. Darcy reading at the round table and 
Walter poring over a book as usual. Paul felt ill at 
ease. The presence of the music student embarrassed 
him, and added to all the rest was a new feeling for Paul, 
a feeling of jealousy. This grew as the evening went on 
and he realized that probably he could have no oppor- 
tunity to speak to Esther on the subject that had brought 
him to the house. 

“Mr. Bayliss and I are practicing a duet for the annual 
concert program. Do you mind if we go through it once 
more?” Esther asked Paul, who made a polite answer. 
Bayliss was only a trifle better than an average player, 
but Paul, who did not play any musical instrument, 
thought he did horribly well. When the duet had been 
rendered clear through, Esther, who was an enthusiast 
in music, wanted to go over a certain part of it again, 
and to Paul’s disgust, actually seemed to have forgotten 
that he was in the room. She smiled at Bayliss, too. 


JOURNALIST 


57 


and Bayliss, who was a tall fellow, bent his head down 
close to Esther’s, pretending, Paul said to himself, that 
he needed to correct his own score from the music on 
the piano. At that point in the practicing Mrs. Darcy 
looked up and nodded to Paul and said good evening. 
Paul got up and walked into the library. Mrs. Darcy 
and Walter seemed glad to see him. He liked Walter 
and was soon discussing with him a popular novel both 
of them had read. The piano and the violin continued 
their spasmodic repetition of the difficult score. Then in 
a pause Paul heard Esther exclaim, “O, Mr. Doug- 
las ” then she realized he was not in the room and 

left the piano, appearing with a somewhat flushed face 
at the library door. 

“Beg pardon, Mr. Douglas. It was very rude of us to 
forget you.” 

“So you did forget me, did you?” said Paul, laughing 
slightly. 

“I think we did for a little while,” said Esther, gravely. 
“But Mr. Bayliss kept making the same mistake and I 
couldn’t stop until he got it right.” 

Bayliss said something about being out of practice and 
after a little more talk about the concert and the other 
parts of the program, Paul rose to go. 

He said good night to Mrs. Darcy and Walter, bowed 
to Mr. Bayliss and went out into the hall. Esther ex- 
cused herself a moment and as she handed Paul his hat 
she said hurriedly, “Have you seen Louis ?” 

“Yes, that’s what I came to see you about.” 

“Well?” Esther spoke eagerly. 

“It’s no use. I didn’t succeed in anything. In fact, 
I’ve lost all the influence I had.” 


58 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“How did that happen ?” 

They had been talking in a low voice and Paul an- 
swered as he put his hand on the door-knob, “I can’t 
tell you ail about it here.” 

Esther blushed and said, “Can you call again? I’m 
sorry about the music.” 

“I don’t think it would do any good to tell you how I 
failed, Miss Darcy,” Paul said stiffly. “I’m sorry I 
can’t do anything for Louis. Good night.” 

He turned and went out so quickly that he hardly 
heard Esther say, “Thank you for trying,” and he did 
not see at all the tears that came into her eyes as the 
door closed and he went down the steps. 

As he walked back to his room he grew hot and cold 
by turns as he realized that he had lost his temper again, 
and had even gone to the verge of rudeness with Esther 
Darcy. 

“What ails me,” he said to himself. He even stopped 
after he was a block from the house and debated the 
question of going back to apologize for his abrupt leave- 
taking. But he went on again to his room and, once there, 
tried to take up some writing, but could not do anything 
with it and finally went to bed but not to sleep. The 
encounter with Louis made him realize that his self- 
esteem had received a hard blow and his evening at the 
Darcys revealed to his heart the fact that he had begun 
to think of Esther as if he had a right. He knew she 
had given him no reason to claim any such right and 
the more he thought it over the more absurd it all seemed 
to him, after such a short acquaintance. Consequently, 
the next day and for several days following he plunged 
into his newspaper work with unusual energy, as if de- 


JOURNALIST 


59 


termined to drive all other imaginings out of his mind. 

It was a week after his encounter with Louis, that 
Grange called him into his office for something special. 

“The News has been making a great fuss about 
theaters lately. Of course it’s all to get in line with the 
craze that’s sweeping the country about them. I want 
you to make the rounds and write up the story of the 
need of amusements for the hard working people and 
nervous business men and all that. What the News has 
been printing lately is rot. Take your time to get a good 
story. Make the rounds of all the places. Take in the 
penny arcades and everything.” 

Paul asked a few questions on points he was not clear 
about and Grange made him understand that what the 
Gazette wanted was a hearty endorsement of the theaters 
and vaudevilles. As he went out of the room the manager 
of the vaudeville came in and Grange greeted him cor- 
dially and asked him to be seated. 

That evening Paul began his visits to the theaters and 
vaudevilles to get material for his story. He under- 
stood perfectly well what he was expected to do. He 
knew that the city editor of the Gazette wanted a smartly 
written story taking the side of the theatrical managers, 
endorsing Sunday performances, and in general contra- 
dicting the articles in the News. 

It should be said here, in order to explain what fol- 
lowed, that Paul Douglas was not a professing Christian 
nor a church member. His mother in Westville prayed 
every day of her life that he might be. Her own pure, 
happy, exalted, unselfish life was a constant source of 
wonder and reverence to Paul. He worshiped his 
mother. He said he would do anything for her. But 


60 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


the one thing she longed for more than anything else 
he had not done. He would not or had not joined the 
church, or put himself in touch with Christian people. 
He said to himself he meant to do it sometime. He knew 
perfectly well what his mother’s yearning for him was. 
Is there a boy who does not know that, when his mother 
has any great ambition for the spiritual life? Louis 
Darcy understood well enough the limit of his mother’s 
social ambitions for him. Paul Douglas knew well 
enough how his mother felt towards him , although she 
rarely spoke to him about his duty to confess Christ 
before men. Once, when he was twelve years old, Paul 
had awakened suddenly at the sound of his mother’s 
voice. When he had gone to bed she had been sitting 
in the room mending his coat which he had torn that 
day while in school. He lay there in bed and saw his 
mother put the coat gently over the back of a chair and 
tenderly pass her thin worn fingers over the sleeves of 
the garment, and then she suddenly kneeled by the chair 
and prayed. Paul will never forget that. She said, and 
her voice had in the low and pleading accent the very 
fragrance of alabaster box ointment. 

“O my gracious Father! Make my boy a Christian! 
He is a good boy. He loves me. But O my Father ! I 
want him to love Thee! Show me the right way to 
train him, to lead him to Thee. He is entering the path of 
manhood. His temptations are beginning in ways he has 
not known heretofore. O spare him, Lord, spare him 
from the defilements of sin. Thou knowest my heart’s 
desire. Thou knowest, Lord, I would gladly lay down 
my life for him. But O, make him to see that One who 
did lay down his life long ago that He might save my 


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boy. Gracious Lord, am I asking too much? I am but 
asking that he might not be lost. Save him, Lord, save 
him! For he is the last of my beautiful ones. Three 
blossoms out of my garden hast thou plucked, and O my 
heart has been bereft. Wilt thou not spare this one to 
grow here upon the earth and give me joy? Not for 
myself, my Lord, but for him I pray. Save my boy and 
make him to grow up a Christian, for Jesus’ sake. Amen.” 

Hardly had the “Amen” been spoken before Paul was 
asleep again. Yet the memory of that which he had 
heard would abide with him forever. It would be one 
of the memories of earth he could carry into the other 
world. And yet he had disappointed the greatest wish 
of his mother so far. He did not call himself a Christian. 
He had not in any definite way made any confession of 
Christian faith before the world. 

But if he had not done that, his mother’s life and 
teaching and training had made a strong character full of 
convictions of honesty and purity and manliness. Paul 
really hated shams and had his mother’s contempt for 
hypocrisy. He had clean and sound visions of right 
and wrong and even the narrow, selfish, one-sided news- 
paper world into which he flung his ambitions had not 
yet obscured those visions. 

All this has been necessary to a right understanding 
of Paul’s action in the matter of his theatrical assign- 
ments which the city editor of the Gazette had made him 
and which he had begun on the evening of that same day. 

He started in early with the first performance given 
in the evening by the vaudevilles and had gone to three 
of them and taken full notes before 9 o’clock. One of 
the penny arcades was directly across the street from 


62 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


the last vaudeville and he stepped across and spent half 
an hour there looking into all the machines in the room. 
There were three theaters in Milton and all three were 
giving plays that night. Paul went from the arcade to 
the nearest theater and entered in time to witness the 
first of the fourth act of a play which was having a great 
run and advertised itself as the “most thrilling, sensa- 
tional, and arresting drama, dealing with the tragedy of 
human sin and passion, The Woes of Lady Hamilton.” 
The bill boards outside the theater represented a life-like 
tableau of a woman pointing a revolver at a man, of 
two men engaged in a desperate hand to hand struggle, of 
an Indian leaping over an impossible chasm and of a 
little girl being run over by an express train. 

Paul had bought a seat two rows from the rear in the 
dress circle. The scene on the stage when he entered 
was the scene of the heroine pointing her revolver at the 
man. When she shot him, a cheer went up from the 
gallery. The dress circle also clapped vigorously. 

“Served him right,” yelled a voice in the rear of the 
dress circle. Everybody laughed. Many people turned 
about to see who had spoken and at that moment Paul 
saw Louis Darcy. 

Louis was with George Randall’s sister and they had 
both looked around. Just as Paul recognized Louis, the 
boy saw Paul. He turned red and half rose from his 
seat, but sat down and began whispering to the girl. She 
listened and then turned to look at Paul. Paul felt 
exceedingly annoyed. Up to that moment he had not 
been thinking of Louis. At once it flashed into his mind 
that Louis probably believed that Paul was spying on 
him again. 


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Paul started to go out when the act was over. But 
Louis was out in the aisle before him and before he had 
time to realize what the boy was going to do, Louis 
was close to him, his face very white and his hand 
clenched. 

“You sneak. I’ll teach you to spy on me! Take that.” 
Louis struck him in the face with all his might. Paul 
was so astonished at the unthought-of thing that he had 
not even thrown up his hand in defense. People looked 
around and stood up at the sound of Louis’ voice. Paul 
looked dazed. He had never had any experience like it 
in all his life. In the swift moment that he stood there 
confronting Louis he looked beyond him and was con- 
scious that sitting at the left of the dress circle was 
Esther Darcy. Mr. Bayliss, the musical student, was 
with her, and Paul saw them both start up and stand by 
their seats staring at him and Louis, on Esther’s face a 
look of horror and on Bayliss’ a look of amusement. 
It was all like some horrible nightmare to Paul and it 
seemed as if the event would put an everlasting brand 
of disgrace upon him. 


64 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


CHAPTER IV. 

Paul's first impulse on being struck by Louis was the 
natural instinct of every primitive man, and that was to 
strike back. His hand was up and then two things inter- 
vened to prevent the blow. One was the sight of Esther, 
the other was a swift thought of his mother. He had 
had good natured arguments at home with his mother, 
over the question of war, and how far a football player 
is justified in hurting a player on the other team. His 
mother had Tolstoy’s ideas of non-resistance and had 
trained him accordingly. It spoke volumes for her in- 
fluence over her- son, that in the heat of passion caused 
by an undeserved blow Paul could and did let his hand 
fall to his side. He took out his handkerchief and wiped 
away the blood which a ring on Louis’ finger had drawn 
from his cheek. And then ignoring the confusion around 
him, he turned to go out of the theater. 

But one of the ushers who had seen the affair laid his 
hand on Louis’ shoulder and started to hustle him out. 
A policeman who was in the foyer came up and the 
usher started to turn Louis over to him. By that time 
Esther and Bayliss had come up the aisle, the people in 
the rear of the dress circle had gathered to note the dis- 
turbance and cries were going up from the audience for 
order. 

Paul spoke to the officer. “It’s all right, officer. It’s 
a mistake. The boy did not mean to strike me. I mean, 
I can explain everything to him.” 


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“You’re both disturbing the peace. Come along, both 
of you,” said the officer. 

Paul sickened at the thought of the publicity of the 
police court. He was in horror over the idea of being in 
such a vulgar row. There was no thought of anything 
except following the officer. Louis had cowered back, 
now that his passion had spent itself, and looked almost 
ready to faint. It was then that Esther went up to 
Louis and put her hand on his arm and spoke to the 
officer, “O, don’t arrest him. I’m sure it’s a mistake. 
He is my brother. He didn’t mean ” 

Paul said in a low tone, “We must all go outside. I 
can explain everything.” 

The officer, who happened to be a good natured Irish- 
man, shoved the people aside and nodded at Paul. “Sure ! 
First outside, then inside. Ten days, if not more.” 

Paul sickened again at the mere thought. Once on 
the sidewalk he pleaded with the officer to let Louis and 
himself go. 

“I’m a reporter on the Gazette. This is Mr. Darcy’s 
son, Darcy of the News.” Paul spoke so that no one 
but the officer could hear. “It’s a mistake. You don’t 
need to do anything.” 

Esther stood by with clasped hands, eyeing the officer 
and Paul and Louis tearfully. 

“O, it will kill mother if Louis is arrested,” she cried. 
Bayliss stood by awkwardly, but did not venture to say 
anything. 

“Sure, an’ I don’t care to assist at a murder, Miss. But 
the theater people won’t stand for a disturbance like 
this an’ nothing done. Shall I arrest you or myself?” 


66 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“You don’t need to arrest anyone,” said Paul. “There’s 
no complaint.” 

“Unless you have one,” said the officer, as Paul wiped 
away another trickle of blood from his face. 

“I’ve no complaint,” replied Paul, hastily. “Come, 
officer, let us go.” 

Esther added a tearful appeal and the policeman took 
his hand off of Louis’ arm. 

“Well, get on with ye, but don’t try it again.” 

“Thank you, officer.” Paul felt a great weight taken 
off. The curious spectators began to move along. Esther 
said as Paul bowed and turned to go, “Won’t you come 
home with us, Mr. Douglas? Mother would be glad.” 

Paul looked at Bayliss and bowed again. “Thank you. 
Miss Darcy. I think not.” 

“Louis,” spoke up Esther, almost passionately, “why 
don’t you apologize to Mr. Douglas? Have you no 
shame?” 

Louis looked sullen and made no answer. He was 
looking towards George Randall’s sister, who had just 
come out of the theater with her brother. He took a 
step towards her, when Esther stopped him. 

“Louis, you are going home with me. George Randall 
can take care of his sister, you go home with me.” 

Louis hesitated as if debating the question of refusal. 
But Esther took his arm determinedly and he started 
on with her. Esther practically ignored Bayliss who, 
however, walked by the side of the brother and sister 
until they reached the house. Esther did not ask him to 
come in, and responded almost curtly to his “good night, 
Miss Darcy.” 

Once in the house Esther faced Louis indignantly. 


JOURNALIST 


G7 


Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were out for the evening and Walter 
was at the literary and the two were alone. She was a 
girl of strong feeling and the incident of the evening had 
moved her profoundly. “Louis Darcy, how could you? 
Have you no shame, no feeling? Think of the disgrace 
to all of us.” 

Louis had sunk into a deep chair. His hat was on his 
head and he sat with his feet stretched out on the rug. 
He was wearing a dress suit and looked absurdly like 
a little boy dressed to imitate a big man. He kicked the 
rug with his patent leather pumps as he looked sullenly 
at Esther. 

“O, let up on a lecture, Esther. I’m sick of it. You 
and Walter din at me all the time. I ought not to have 
hit Douglas, but I don’t intend to have anyone sneaking 
around and spying on me. That’s what made me mad.” 

“Mr. Douglas spying on you?” 

“Yes, he was. He did it once before at the Ideal. And 
you put him up to it.” 

“I put him up to it ! All I did was to ask Mr. Douglas 
to get you away from the vaudevilles.” 

“It’s none of his business, or yours either. I’m big 
enough to take care of myself.” 

“You don’t know that Mr. Douglas was in the theater 
tonight to see you. He might have been there to see the 
play. At any rate, Louis, you did an awfully wrong thing 
to hit him as you did. And the theater is not good for 
you, you know it isn’t.” 

“Seems to be good for you all right. I notice you go 
every time some young man asks you.” 

“I’m five years older than you. But that’s nothing to 


68 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


do with your conduct tonight. After what Mr. Douglas 
did for you to get you out of debt.” 

“Yes, and I learned the other night why he did it. Just 
to get into your good graces.” 

“Louis Darcy!” Esther colored deeply and spoke 
angrily. “Mr. Douglas never ” 

“Well, he didn’t deny it when I charged him with it, 
which is pretty good proof,” Louis laughed insolently 
and Esther, indignant, started to leave the room. At the 
door she turned around and said angrily, “If father hears 
of tonight, you know what the result will be.” 

Louis started up out of the chair in real alarm. “Say, 
Esther, don’t tell him. That’s a good girl. Don’t, will 
you ?” 

“Yes I will. I think he ought to know. The way you 
are acting is inexcusable. The best thing that could 
happen to you would be to leave High School, where you 
are a failure, and go into the News.” 

“I won’t!” Louis spoke passionately. “I’ll run away 
first. I’ll apologize to Douglas. Don’t tell father, Esther. 
I’ll tell you what made me mad tonight.” And Louis 
gave his sister an account of his meeting with Douglas 
after his night at the vaudeville. Esther had come back 
into the room and resumed her seat. She was interested 
in the account, for Douglas had not told her of the meet- 
ing. When Louis had answered a few questions, Esther 
said slowly, “Very well, I’ll not say anything to father 
if you apologize to Douglas and tend to your High School 
work.” 

“All right!” Louis eagerly promised. “I’ll apologize.” 
He pulled out a cigarette, lighted it and began to puff the 
smoke through his nostrils. 


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69 


Esther looked at him with a mingled look of reproach 
and anger, but left the room without more words. Louis 
yawned and smoked alternately and when he heard his 
father and mother coming up the walk, hastily went up 
stairs to his room. 

When Paul reached his room at the Y. M. C. A. he 
washed the blood from his face and as he sat down had 
a feeling of thankfulness that he had kept his temper 
through the trying experience. But he could not avoid a 
feeling of resentment towards Louis and, added to that, 
was another emotion, Why was Esther Darcy at the play ? 
It was no fit play for a girl like Esther. For that matter 
it was not a fit play for anyone to see or hear. It was 
vulgar in its dialogue, much of which was so nearly in- 
decent that Paul had blushed at the little he had heard 
before Louis had confronted him. The plot of the play 
revolved around the breaking up of a home and the 
sympathies of the players and of the audience were 
clearly with the wrong-doers in the human tragedy. 
There were flings in the play at the church and the mar- 
ried relation and false and sickening sentiment and excuse 
of gross sin. The most sacred things were held up to 
ridicule and the gallery went wild with joy when a gang 
of train robbers blew open a mail car and shot the mes- 
senger. It was a play that glorified adultery and crime, 
and the audience seemed to enjoy it greatly. Paul felt 
his blood boil at the thought of Esther Darcy sitting there 
by the side of Bayliss receiving all the coarse influence of 
the evening entertainment. It seemed to him that the 
girl’s pure mind must be soiled by the play. How could 
it escape contamination? He found himself losing a 
certain worship of her attractive personality, and realized 


70 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


again that he was dangerously near to being in love with 
her. He said to himself that if he had been in Bayliss’ 
place he would have taken Esther out of the theater 
rather than let her sit there and listen to such things. 
Yet what young man ever did register his protest in that 
way? Paul had never heard of one. And yet nearly half 
the plays in the regular theaters contained coarse, vulgar 
dialogue, and their plots had to do with the glorification 
or excuse of sin and crime. And college people in Hope 
and society people in general at Milton went continually 
to such plays and if they felt any indignation at the false 
moral teaching never registered it by going out. Esther 
ought not to have been there at all. That was Paul’s 
main grievance as he went' over the evening. Perhaps 
she and Bayliss were engaged. They seemed to be to- 
gether a good deal. Paul wondered if they were. He 
thought of asking Walter. And then he turned to his 
notes on the vaudevilles and started to write them out. 
And the nature of the play and the presence of Esther 
had strong influence over him as he wrote late into the 
night. When he had read over the copy he smiled a 
little grimly at what Grange, the city editor of the 
Gazette, would say when the complete story of the vaude- 
villes and theaters of Milton was written up. 

Next day Paul was busy with his regular morning 
assignment with the railroad news and did not get into 
the Gazette building until one o’clock. Grange was in his 
room near the general reporters’ room and the door was 
open as Paul walked by. Grange called him in and asked 
him about the theater assignment. Paul told him he 
would complete his rounds that night and would have the 
story ready next day. 


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71 


Grange looked at his face, which showed the mark 
of Louis’ blow. “A little extra story on your account last 
night, eh?” 

Paul tried to turn it off lightly. “I hope it won’t get 
into print, Mr. Grange.” 

“Too late. Being set up now.” 

“Can’t you cut it out, Mr. Grange ? I wish you would. 
It won’t ” 

“Can’t do that. One of the boys happened to get the 
facts from the usher. It makes a good story. You don’t 
suffer from it any.” 

“I don’t care about that. I’m thinking of the family.” 

“So am I,” replied Grange, with a queer smile. “Darcy 
has had his flings at me often enough. Let him look at 
home a little.” Grange had reference to a little family 
trouble in his own household which the News had aired 
over a year ago. Paul saw it was no use to protest 
against the story appearing in the Gazette that evening, 
and he awaited its appearance with a feeling of appre- 
hension as the first edition began coming off the press. 

Mr. Darcy, seated in his office at the News, always 
glanced through the Gazette before going home. It was 
the only evening daily in Milton as a rival to the News, 
and a personal or political fight was generally going on 
between the two papers. 

As the paper was flung on his desk that afternoon he 
picked it up and the first thing that caught his eye was 
a display head on the first page. 

“UNPROVOKED ASSAULT ON A GAZETTE 
REPORTER. 

“Albert Darcy’s son strikes one of the Gazette Repor- 
torial Force.” Then followed the story. 


72 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“Last night at the Crown Theater during the perform^ 
ance of that intensely interesting and instructive play ^ ‘The 
Lions’ Share,’ by the gifted company of manager Erland, 
a Gazette reporter who was present taking note*, of the 
play was grossly insulted and finally struck in the face 
by young Louis Darcy, a son of Albert Darcy, c?ty editor 
of the News. No reason is given for this act on the part 
of young Darcy, but it is surmised that he tooic exception 
to some question asked by the Gazette reporter about his 
being present at a play which the city editor of the News 
has several times gone out of his way to condemn. Miss 
Darcy, a daughter of the city editor, was also present 
and saw the assault. The boy was not arrested owing to 
the fact that no complaint was made ekher by the theater 
company or by the reporter of the Gazette. The Gazette 
would suggest that it might be a gosM plan for the News 
editor to keep his own family away from all plays he 
condemns. But consistency is too /are and costly a jewel 
to be found often in the News office.” 

Darcy read the item through and his heart boiled up 
with rage, first at Grange of \he Gazette, and then at 
Louis. He felt savage enough to shoot Grange, but did 
not consider such a thing to be feasible. So all his prac- 
tical anger vented itself on his boy. He seized his hat 
and rushed out of the office and caught the first car for 
home. 

The minute he entered the house he inquired for Louis. 
Mrs. Darcy had not seen him since dinner. Walter had 
not yet come home from College. Darcy went up to his 
den to wait. In a few minutes Esther came in and went 
up to her room. She had been there only a short time 
when she came running out into the hall with a piece of 


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73 


paper in her hand. “Father!” she exclaimed, coming to 
the door of the den, “Louis has run away! O, what 
will become of that boy ?” She sat down and cried, while 
her father read the brief note Esther had found on her 
dresser. 

“Esther, I can’t stand it any longer. Everybody is 
down on me, and I’m going to clear out. Father will 
hear about last night somehow and then I’ll catch it. 
I don’t intend to come back. Louis.” 

Mr. Darcy read it through and his anger evaporated. 
Anxiety took the place of it. After all, when a boy runs 
away from home, no matter what the reason, the folks 
at home are apt to lose some of their hard feelings. It 
is like crying over a child that has wandered away and got 
lost. When he is found, very likely he is taken home and 
whipped for getting lost. But between the losing and 
finding everyone is solicitous. 

So Mr. Albert Darcy. He reproached himself for 
neglecting the boy, which was a fact. He had let him run 
wild and all he had done was to make the boy afraid of 
him. In that respect he was like thousands of other so- 
called civilized fathers. Now the boy had got desperate 
and run away. It was not a pleasant thought to Mr. 
Darcy that a son of his was sowing wild oats so early 
in life. He felt humiliated by the suggestion that the boy 
found his own home so little attractive that he was willing 
to leave it. 

He questioned Esther about the incident in the theater 
and for the first time learned the facts about Paul and 
his attempt to get Louis away from the vaudevilles. 
And again his own self-esteem received a shock to think 
a comparative stranger like Paul was trying to do more 


74 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


for his boy than his own father. Mrs. Darcy heard the 
eager talk and came up stairs. She went into hysterics 
at the news. She was sure Louis would be killed. He 
was only a child. Why had they all been so hard on the 
dear boy? Always nagging him and trying to take away 
his liberty, etc. Mr. Darcy finally broke in. 

“Don’t be a fool, Constance, Louis can’t go very far. 
Boys run away from home every day. I did it myself 
once. But I was glad to get back. And Louis will be. 
Like as not he is in town yet. At any rate he can’t go 
very far. We’ll find him. I’ll phone the police and 
we’ll send out instructions to all the towns around to be 
on the watch.” 

“Yes, and make the disgrace all public!” wailed Mrs. 
Darcy. 

“I don’t see how we can help that,” Mr. Darcy said 
curtly. “If we intend finding him we’ve got to make it 
public.” 

He went to the telephone to get word to police head- 
quarters and hardly reached the instrument when a call 
came from the Randalls. Mrs. Randall telephoned in 
great distress to say that her boy George had run away 
from home with Louis, leaving word to that effect in a 
note which she had just found in the boy’s room. She 
said both boys had revolvers and that George had just 
received his monthly allowance which amounted to fifteen 
dollars. 

“So these two kids have two revolvers and fifteen dol- 
lars between them. Game is not very plenty between 
here and Cranston,” said Mr. Darcy grimly, as he hung 
up the receiver. 

“There are two of them, so we can find them easier,” 


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75 


he said to his wife and Esther as he rejoined them. He 
went down town, made the rounds of the different rail- 
road stations, went to police headquarters and did all he 
could think of to get trace of the two boys, but finally 
came home late without having heard anything of them, 
to find his wife in bed and Esther caring for her. Walter 
volunteered to go out and make special inquiries and was 
gone until after midnight, but failed to get any clue. 
No one had seen the boys after they left the High School 
that morning. And so over the Darcy house that night 
hovered the spirit of wakeful anxiety for the boy who 
had wilfully gone out from under the roof tree and for 
all they knew might be that moment in great peril or in 
unaccustomed and painful experience. And Mr. Albert 
Darcy did not rest any easier to remember that the boy 
might have turned out better if during the last ten years 
his father had been as eager to train the boy into a good 
man as he had been to make money and gratify his lit- 
erary ambitions. 

Next day Paul learned the news of Louis. As he went 
by the News building he walked in and asked to see Mr. 
Darcy. Darcy showed the effects of a sleepless night. 

“I'll do what I can to find Louis, Mr. Darcy/’ said 
Paul, eagerly. “Have you been to the theaters?” 

“No, why should I go there?” Darcy had asked. He 
noted the mark on Paul’s cheek and wondered if he 
himself would care to be kind to Grange if Grange had 
struck him in the face like that. 

“Well, I’ve a notion both Randall and Louis are more 
or less stage struck. The Royal advertised last week 
for boys to travel with the new vaudeville circuit as 
supernumeraries in the play that brings in a college foot- 


76 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


ball team. It’s not unlikely Louis can be found there.” 

Darcy thought it very likely and wanted to talk with 
Paul about it, but some one came into the room just then 
and Paul had to go on to his regular work, after assuring 
Darcy that he would keep a lookout all day. 

That night after his round of the theaters Paul sat 
down in his room to write out the story of what he had 
seen and heard. He had been to every vaudeville and 
theater in Milton. He had also made a study of the 
plays that had been given at the theaters for the last 
three months, and he had talked with a large number of 
theater goers, asking them for their opinions on the moral 
influence of the plays. 

What we have said about Paul’s hatred of shams and 
hypocrisy, together with the character training he had 
received from his mother will account now for the re- 
markable story he wrote about the theaters for the 
Gazette. He knew exactly what Grange wanted. He 
wanted a story that would defend the theater from the 
assaults of the News. In addition to that, he wanted 
the whole subject treated from the standpoint of a gallery 
play for the poor working men and the toiler, who must 
have amusement and could not get it anywhere else except 
in the vaudeville or theater. 

It was after midnight when Paul finished. He had a 
habit of reading out loud what he had written and he 
began now, stopping now and then to make some cor- 
rections. 

“A reporter for the Gazette has been making the rounds 
of the vaudevilles and theaters in Milton. In view of the 
present interest which the people all over the country are 
taking in the subject of amusements it may be worth 


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77 


while for readers of the Gazette to know what the re- 
porter found. 

“There are four vaudevilles and three regular theaters 
in Milton and they have all been presenting full bills 
every night in the week, including Sundays, for several 
months. 

“It is not generally known, but the theaters of this 
country are controlled by a trust, which is managed al- 
most exclusively by parties in New York. This trust 
is an iron-clad affair, a combine of the most rigid and 
relentless character. No combine in oil or iron or beef 
can equal the theatrical trust for monopolistic selfish- 
ness. Under this management actors and actresses are 
compelled to sign contracts to act every night in the week. 
If they should happen to have some scruples about acting 
on Sunday their scruples in many cases would mean the 
loss of their positions. To break down this trust some 
of the best actors and actresses in America have united, 
but so far the trust remains unbroken. 

“In the vaudeville performance in Milton a general 
program is followed in all of them. There are moving 
pictures, trained dogs, acrobats, sleight-of-hand perform- 
ances, topical solo singers, chorus groups, coon and ballet 
dances and optical illusions. In three of the vaudevilles 
during the visit of the reporter nothing particularly im- 
moral was presented except by suggestion. The moving 
pictures were for the most part beautiful and scientifically 
interesting. In two cases the film represented a train 
robbery and a safe explosion, the robbers getting away 
with the money to the great applause of the audience. 
In another case the moving picture gave the revolting 
details of a dissection in a surgical laboratory and in 


78 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


another the scene was the eviction of an Irish peasant by 
the landlord and the subsequent shooting of the landlord, 
again to the evident delight of the audience. 

“The reporter observed that the more exciting and 
blood-curdling the moving picture was the more en- 
thusiastic the applause, while in every case when some- 
thing approaching coarseness or vulgarity was presented 
it always drew a laugh from the audience. Three of the 
vaudevilles in Milton advertise their shows as free from 
all objectionable features. Two of the managers told 
the reporter it was one of the rules of the house to cut out 
all indecent and immoral dialogue. Yet even in these 
houses some of the pictures and songs were decidedly 
coarse and were evidently introduced purposely to at- 
tract a large proportion of the regular attendants. 

“It must be said that for the most part the bills pre- 
sented by the vaudevilles are cleaner and the moral tone 
is less tainted than in the regular theaters. 

“There are three theaters giving the usual representa- 
tions in Milton. Like the vaudevilles, they are under 
the control of the trust and are subject to its financial 
policy. A study of twenty-four plays given in these 
theaters during the last two months gives the following 
interesting result. Out of the twenty-four, there were 
five which were free from objectionable matter, so far as 
dialogue and scenes were concerned. Of the remaining 
nineteen, eleven had for their plot some scandal which 
revolved around the ruin of a family. Of the eight re- 
maining plays, three were roaring farces, one of them 
consisting of the adventures of a city man who goes to 
Coney Island during his wife’s visit to her old home, and 
spends all his money on a crowd of chorus girls. Two 


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were given up to life in Paris and other continental cities 
by a company of dissipated German University students. 
The remaining three plays were melodrama filled with 
shooting, poisoning, train robbery, and general lawless- 
ness. 

“This looks like a dismal case for the theaters. But 
the facts are even worse. In the nineteen plays tabulated 
here, there were scenes which, if acted in real life out 
doors in the streets of any decent town, would subject 
the persons speaking to arrest for improper language. 
Yet this language was used on the stage with impunity 
and used in the presence of young women who would 
shudder and feel insulted to hear the same things spoken 
on the street or if they should read them in print. 

“The audiences at the vaudevilles consisted for the 
most part of boys and girls, that is, of persons in their 
’teens with a sprinkling of older people. Many women 
were present at the matinees. At one vaudeville the 
reporter counted fifteen baby carriages left in the lobby 
by the mothers. The audiences at the regular theaters 
were composed of respectable-looking, well-dressed peo- 
ple. The average working man, that is, the wage earner, 
was not present in any great numbers, to judge from the 
appearance of the audiences the Gazette reporter saw. 

“To sum up the impressions of the reporter after his 
round of the vaudevilles and theaters, it must be said, 

1st. The theatrical trust is a combine that works 
great hardships on conscientious actors. It is in many 
ways the most tyrannical and unfair combination of 
capital in the country today. 

“2nd. The theater, by insisting upon Sunday per- 
formances thereby declares itself as against the majority 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


of other forms of money making in Milton. Business 
as a whole in this town is suspended on Sunday. The 
merchants, for the most part, close up their stores and 
shut down their plants. They say by that act that six 
days is enough to make money. They need one day in a 
week for rest and religious instruction. The theaters 
say they must make money every day in the week, even 
if their action outrages all the convictions of the Christian 
people of the town and even if the actors and actresses 
and stage hands are overworked. That has nothing to 
do with their one great passion to make more money. 
And back of all this stands the trust, compelling managers 
to go on with Sunday work, even if they might be glad 
as individuals to close up once a week. 

“3rd. The character of the performance given by the 
theaters is a fair indication of their own character. An 
institution which is willing to go on record as an every- 
day money making institution has no right to the respect 
of a Christian community. But when they add to that 
act of selfishness, insults to purity and incentives to 
crime, it is a great act of effrontery on their part to ask 
church people and college people to support the institu- 
tion by their money and their presence. No other insti- 
tution in Milton presents to the public so constantly, 
scenes and dialogues of coarse, vulgar and harmful ten- 
dency. If the amusements in the homes of the people 
partook of the same general character as those of the 
theater a cry of horror would go up from the whole city. 

“This is not saying that all plays are of an immoral or 
degrading character. There are some very beautiful 
exceptions. The reporter has already noted the fact that, 
for the most part, the vaudeville shows are free from 


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degrading exhibitions. But most of them introduce at 
some time or other during the evening some picture or 
dialogue or dance that excites the evil passions. As a 
whole, the theater must be judged for its influence as 
a whole. And by that judgment the theatrical influence 
in Milton must be characterized as decidedly hostile to 
clean thinking and wholesome living. At least that is the 
impression of the Gazette reporter, received after a care- 
ful round of the places of amusement in the town of 
Milton.” 

Paul finished reading and leaned back in his chair 
v and thought it over. He knew what Grange would 
say. He knew perfectly well what the city editor was 
expecting. He knew that he had violated every rule of 
the paper in writing this story. The reporters were not 
expected to have any convictions of their own. They 
were expected to be simply recorders of news and they 
were expected to record that news without any personal 
expression of their own views. They were simply hired 
hands working in the interests of the paper, no matter 
what their own views might be. Paul knew that the 
Gazette received large advertisements from the vaude- 
villes and theaters and that his story was one well calcu- 
lated to make Grange insane with rage. But Paul had a 
streak of stubbornness in him which had showed itself 
to Darcy when he had said to him in his office, “No paper 
can make me work on Sunday,” when Darcy had told 
him the Gazette would make him do so. This stubborn- 
ness had led him to write his own version of the theater 
instead of the one he knew Grange wanted. “If I am 
going to be a newspaper man,” Paul said to himself, “I 
will not begin by being a hypocrite for $10 a week. I 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


have written the facts about the Milton theaters and 
Grange knows it as well as I do, and I don’t care what 
he says, or what he does.” 

It was in this spirit that he walked in to give Grange 
his story next morning. Grange was in a good humor 
and greeted Paul cordially. 

“Here’s my story on the theaters, Mr. Grange.” 

“All right. I’ll run it in tomorrow in our Saturday 
Supplement.” 

“Wish you’d look it over, Mr. Grange, and see if you 
want it.” 

Grange stared. “It isn’t necessary. I know your 
work. It’s all right.” 

“Well, I think it is, but you may not think so.” 

“O, it’s all right,” said Grange hastily. “I haven’t 
time to look it over.” Just at that moment the press 
foreman sent for Grange; there was trouble down below 
and the city editor was wanted. Paul had to go out on 
his assignment and promised himself that when he came 
back he would tell Grange about the story. But an acci- 
dent on the railroad kept him past the time of the first 
edition of the Gazette and the minute he came into the 
building he felt that something was wrong. One of the 
bookkeepers in the office was scanning the paper with 
great interest. He called out to Paul, “The old man 
wants to see you particularly.” 

Paul went up stairs and entered the city editor’s room. 

Grange had a crumpled issue of the Gazette in his 
hand. “Here! Douglas, what fool work is this you’ve 

been turning out? Of all the ” Grange exploded 

half a dozen oaths in Paul’s face. Paul waited coolly 
until he was through. 


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“I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Grange.” 

‘‘You don’t! It’s this story about the theaters,” 

Grange pushed the paper close up to Paul’s face. “Do 
you know what that means to me ? Are you a fool ?” 

“I didn’t know you were going to use it until tomor- 
row,” Paul exclaimed. 

“I wasn’t. But I changed my mind owing to Darcy’s 
article in the News last night. But I never looked over 
your copy.” 

“I asked you to.” 

Grange exploded. ‘‘How was I to know you were 
a fool?” 

“You don’t know what isn’t so!” replied Paul, his 
anger rising. 

“But of course you are one to write a thing like this. 
It’s beyond the limit. It will cause no end of trouble 
for the Gazette. Do you realize that I closed a contract 
this morning with the managers of the Royal and Search 
Light for a thousand dollars worth for the next month.” 
Grange swore again and whistled down tubes and pushed 
buttons to stop the edition and call in all that had got 
out on the street. But that was not possible and Darcy 
at that moment was reading with unusual interest the 
remarkable write-up and wondering when Grange had 
been converted and why. 

“Fool !” Grange said it a dozen times and swore at 
Paul until Paul turned red and white. Finally he man- 
aged to get in a reply. 

“Mr. Grange, I was going to tell you what the story 
was. I had no idea you would print it, of course, when 
you read it. You asked me to write up the theaters of 
Milton and I did it, and told the truth about them.” 


84 


PAUL DOUGLAS : 


“You know what we wanted waa a story—- We 
didn’t want the truth. Curse you ! Clear out. The office 
will settle for your account.” 

Grange was like a wild animal in his profane rage. 
The event was without parallel in the Gazette experience. 
A new linotype operator had set up the copy, a man who 
was not familiar with the Gazette’s policy or its senti- 
ments. The press foreman had been hurt that morning 
and his place had been filled by an assistant. The first 
edition had gone out on the street and a large number 
had been sent off on the mail delivery before Grange 
discovered Paul’s story. A combination of circumstances 
had made possible what was rare in a newspaper office. 
And the city editor was simply mad with the universe 
and especially with Paul, who stood looking at him 
thoughtfully. 

“Well, do you hear? You can get what’s owing you 
in the office and clear out.” 

“Yes, I hear, Mr. Grange. But I ” 

“No more of you, curse you!” 

Paul had rapidly been thinking and he wanted to tell 
Grange something, when the door opened and a mes- 
senger boy put his head in. “Paul Douglas,” he said. 
Paul took the telegram envelope and tore it open. On 
the yellow slip he read : 

“Your mother very ill. Come home at once. 

“Father.” 

He held the slip in his hand as he stood there in the 
city editor’s office and every other event was crowded 
out of his mind as his pulses stopped for a moment and 
then throbbed again to the cry of his heart as it uttered 
the word “mother !” 


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CHAPTER V. 

Paul went out of the city editor’s room without show- 
ing him the telegram. The message was like some sacred 
thing that would be dishonored by having a profane man 
like Grange look at it. He stopped at the office to re- 
ceive what was due him on his week’s wages as he realized 
he would need all the money owing him in order to reach 
home. It was a two days’ ride and he found as he hur- 
ried up to his room that he had just enough money to 
buy his ticket if he went without a sleeper. He packed 
his bag and took the first through train west. As the 
factory and railroad chimneys of Milton slipped out of 
view he gave himself up wholly to the possibilities of 
that telegram. He had already sent word he was on the 
way. For two days now, he would have to be in absolute 
ignorance of what was going on at home. 

The telegram was the first intimation he had received 
of anything wrong there. His last letter had contained 
no hint of anything like illness. His mother had always 
been well, and Paul had always though of her as living 
on forever on the earth. The thought of her dying had 
never occurred to him. Or if it had, he quickly dismissed 
it as beyond probability. Now, as he realized what might 
be awaiting her, he felt his heart sink with a feeling of 
anguish such as he had never experienced. He was of a 
peculiarly sensitive temperament. His early literary de- 
velopment was one mark of it. He was constituted to 
enjoy and to suffer keenly. His imagination was highly 


86 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


charged with pictures that caused him either joy or pain. 
His love for his mother was the tenderest, most sacred 
thing he knew anything about. In spite of the fact that 
he had not yet become a publicly professed Christian, 
the one greatest desire of his mother’s heart, Paul knew 
that his love for his mother was the best thing in him. 
If he had not yet given himself to God in any positive 
or enthusiastic fashion he had countless times won vic- 
tories over some evil passion because he knew the yield- 
ing to it would grieve his mother. Now, as the train 
dragged slowly on he longed, yet feared, to reach home. 
What if the worst should come? What if his mother 
should die? O no! That was not possible. She had 
always said God was good. If He let her die now, Paul 
would not believe that any more. He prayed as his 
mother had taught him but as he had never prayed before, 
that she might live, and in his prayer there was a reserva- 
tion to the effect that if his prayer was not answered 
affirmatively it would mean for himself a loss of faith 
not only in the love of God, but in the very principle of 
prayer itself. He challenged God in his prayer as if 
he had said to him, “Save my mother from dying, O God. 
If you do, I will love and serve you all the rest of my life. 
If you let her die, I will not believe any more.” 

Through the two days and nights he snatched a little 
sleep in the day coach. But always waking or sleeping, 
the vision of his mother’s smiling face and loving pres- 
ence stole upon him and he kept saying passionately to 
himself, “God will not let her die. I cannot bear it, O 
God! Keep her from dying!” 

The train arrived in Westville late in the afternoon. 
As it slowed down to enter the station, Paul had already 


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made up his mind that if his father was there to meet 
him, his mother would be dead. He rose and went down 
the aisle, not daring to stay in his seat to look longer out 
of the window. And as he stepped down upon the station 
platform he saw his father standing there, and a dozen 
neighbors with him. 

One look at his father told the story. One sob from 
him, “She’s gone, dear boy!” and Paul’s arm was around 
his father’s neck as if he were the little lad again and the 
father’s went around his son and they stood there awhile, 
the silent friends looking on sympathetically. But after 
the first wave of anguish had gone through his heart 
Paul felt angry. What were these people here for? 
What was it to them ! They came up to take his hand. 
He submitted mechanically, but coldly. He urged his 
father to hurry home. Once there, his anger kindled 
again at the sight of the neighbors in the house. Why 
were they there? Could they not leave him and his 
father alone ? He wanted to be alone. He did not want 
any one near. 

He hardly spoke to one or two old friends of his 
mother, and passed through the sitting room into her 
bedroom. Her body was in the coffin in the parlor. He 
did not want to go in there. He kneeled by the bed and 
flung his arms out over it. His father came in, shut the 
door and kneeled by him, throwing his arm around Paul. 

They both stayed there on their knees for several min- 
utes. Finally Mr. Douglas felt Paul tremble all over, a 
great shudder of anguish and fear, but what the boy said 
made the father shudder. 

“Father, do you believe in God? I don’t now.” 

“Hush, Paul! Your mother believed in God.” 


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PAUL DOUGLAS : 


“Then why did he let her die?” 

“The ways of God are not always known to his chil- 
dren. Paul, your mother herself used to say that she had 
perfect faith in him.” 

“But we prayed. You did, father. I prayed every 
minute. And it was of no use. O mother ! mother ! And 
she died without speaking to me!” Paul gave way to 
his passion completely, and his father did not try to 
check him. But after awhile Mr. Douglas said, “Paul,, 
do you know what your mother’s last words were?” 

Paul groaned. His arms were flung out over the bed 
and his head was lying on them. His outburst had 
ceased but sobs shook him and he felt as if his heart was 
breaking. 

“Early this morning, about three o’clock, mother moved 
her head so that she was looking up and I heard her 
whisper, ‘O, God, make my boy a Christian.’ Those 
were her last words, Paul. Her last thought was of you.” 

Paul raised his head and looked his father in the face. 
“That prayer of mother’s has never been answered. And 
she was a saint if ever there was one. How can there 
be a God if he does not answer such a prayer?” 

Paul suddenly got up and walked over to the window 
and looked out into the night. Then he sat down and 
buried his face in his hands and sobbed so hard that his 
father was alarmed. At last Mr. Douglas said to him, 

“Paul, dear lad, will you not come in and look at her?” 

“No, no, I can’t. My Heart is broken, father. I can’t 
bear to look at her.” 

“She looks very peaceful, Paul. Just as if — as if — 
her prayers for you were being answered.” 

Paul sat irresolute a few moments, then suddenly, as 


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if urged by a power he could not resist, he rose and went 
with his father into the other room. 

O, the dead faces of the mothers of the world ! What a 
tumult of memories your pale, silent features have 
stirred in the lives of husbands, children and kin. What 
remorse and anguish and self-reproach and heart-ache 
flow up and well over in the thoughts of those who have 
had that experience. Your faces, O pure, unselfish 
mothers of all the generations, have had more power to 
move us than the faces of any living. Their majesty has 
been greater than the majesty of kings. It has been the 
majesty of sacrifice which is the mightiest of all. 

As he looked at his mother, Paul seemed to recall every 
experience of his boyhood. He could remember his care- 
less wounding of her tender sensibilities, his thoughtless 
indifference to her wishes. But it was not all remorse 
that filled his heart as he looked. He had loved his 
mother too well to have many memories of ingratitude. 
He had, for the most part, been obedient and eager to 
please her. But what boy or man ever looked at his dead 
mother without remembering many, many things he 
might have done to rest her weary hands or smooth out 
easier ways for her tired feet? As good as he had been 
to his mother, Paul was no exception. He would have 
given the world as he stood there by her coffin if she 
could have come to life long enough for him to say to 
her, “I love you, mother. You have been everything to 
me. And I will be a Christian. I will be, mother. I 
want to be.” 

But he could not be heard now. It was too late. And 
again there beat into his mind the passionate cry of his 
rebellion against God. 


90 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


To his father’s surprise Paul did not exhibit more 
feeling than he had at the first. They came out of the 
parlor and Paul went up stairs to his old room. He would 
not remain where the friends were and, indeed, he felt 
angry that they were in the house. 

This anger was all a part of his growing hardness of 
heart against God. All night he lay and stared open 
eyed at the dark and the battle went on in him. During 
the funeral service, when the time came for it, he sat 
in the anguish common to all sensitive souls like his, 
dumb to all appeals, deaf to all comfort. Why should 
they have a public funeral? Why could not his father 
and himself and his aunt, who had come from the nearby 
town, be allowed to bury their own, without all these 
prying, inquisitive strangers, who had come in to note 
the marks of sorrow on the faces of the family. Paul 
suffered unspeakable tortures until the service was over. 
At the grave he went through the same torture only in- 
tensified. Old customs prevailed on funeral occasions 
at Westville. When the grave digger started to throw 
some moist clods of dirt down on the coffin at the words, 
“earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Paul put 
out a hand and stopped him. “No!” he said, in a tone 
that contained the only sob that had yet escaped him. 

The minister who was conducting the service was a 
good man but he had never done anything that was out 
of the old established order, and he felt shocked by the 
interruption. On the way home he commented on the 
act to the undertaker, with whom he was riding, and 
expressed his opinion that the young man must have 
been lacking in a sense of decorum. “And in fact, he 


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seemed to be lacking in all feeling,” the minister added; 
“I did not see him shed a single tear.” 

When Paul got back to the house he resented again the 
presence of friends who had prepared a supper. He 
refused to sit down and went to his room. Why should 
these people be feasting before the earth had been shov- 
eled into his mother’s grave? He could hear the min- 
ister’s “after funeral tone of voice,” and then a laugh. 
With a feeling of hot anger against the world in general 
he shut his door and flung himself upon his bed and 
buried his face in his pillow, while tears of grief and 
anger and rebellion followed. At that moment he felt 
the full force of the blow that had fallen on his life, of 
the deep darkness that was beginning to rise in his 
soul. 

The days that followed were dull and heavy for father 
and son. The widowed aunt who had been present for 
the funeral went home to make arrangements for the 
removal of her family to Westville, where she would 
keep house for her brother. Until she came Paul stayed 
at home, helping his father in his business. Besides, his 
own future was uncertain and he had made no plans. 

One evening Mr. Douglas was going over a number 
of letters received from friends. Among them was 
one from Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. He read it out loud to 
Paul. It was written by the city editor and directed to 
them both. 

“Mrs. Darcy and I were deeply shocked to receive the 
news of Mrs. Douglas’ sudden death. Mrs. Douglas was 
a very dear friend of Mrs. Darcy during their school life 
in Abbott Academy, and I shall not soon forget your 
many kindnesses to me, Douglas, during my illness at 


02 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


the University. We sympathize with you and Paul in 
your great loss. How m great it is no one knows or can 
know so deeply as yourselves. Mrs. Darcy is in a serious 
nervous condition, due to her uncertainty concerning the 
whereabouts of Louis. It is a source of great anxiety to 
us all. The boy, as Paul knows, ran away from home 
two weeks ago with a high school classmate, and we have 
no trace of either of them as yet. Walter and Esther 
join with us in sympathy with you at this time.” 

There was also enclosed in this letter a separate note 
to Paul from Mr. Darcy. It had reference to his dis- 
missal from the Gazette and contained an oiler from 
Darcy of a position on the News. 

“I learned, of course, the reason of your dismissal from 
the Gazette,” Darcy’s note went on to say, “as soon as 
I knew you had written the theater story. Grange ex- 
plained the affair by attributing the write-up to revenge 
on the part of a discharged reporter, but the explanation 
did not fool any one. Now if you want to come back on 
the News I can give you the position vacated by Cham- 
bers in my office. It will put you in close touch with 
the political world and give you the inside of my work, 
and the salary will be twenty-five a week. I hope for 
your father’s sake as well as for your own you will accept. 
Any time you want to come in, the place is open for you.” 

Paul discussed the offer with his father, who urged 
him to go back to Milton. 

“Freeman has paid his long-standing debt to me, Paul. 
I can manage the business here all right. Your aunt 
will be here next week and I want you to go on with your 
work. It was your mother’s wish that you develop your 
literary talents, and a newspaper office is a good place 


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to grow. It strikes me Darcy’s offer is an unusually 
generous one, isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” Paul finally decided to accept, and wrote Darcy 
accordingly. He waited the few days until his aunt was 
fairly installed in the house and then started for Milton. 
His father’s last words as they shook hands by the train 
were, “Don’t forget your mother’s last prayer, Paul.” 

Was he in danger of forgetting? As the train rolled 
on bearing him towards Milton, he hardened his heart 
towards God. He could not forgive Him for not answer- 
ing his prayer that his mother might live. Why should 
he believe in God? What had God done for him? It 
seemed to him that it was all a mockery to go on believing 
in something that claimed to be omnipotent and then 
refused to act at the very point where it was most needed. 

So he rode through the first day and night. As if to 
keep in sympathy with his gloomy retrospect, it rained 
every minute. 

During the second day the train lost several hours, 
owing to soft track, caused by heavy rains which had 
continued for over a week. Just at dusk the train 
stopped again near a junction where there was a small 
town. The stop was so long that the passengers all got 
out to see what was the trouble and learned after the 
usual uncertainty in railroad information that a bridge 
in front close by the station was in a dangerous condi- 
tion, owing to the overflow of the stream. Paul went 
down to the bridge and with the other passengers was 
soon convinced that the delay caused by the washout 
would extend over several hours. 

He wandered through the rain up into the little town 
and had lunch at a restaurant and then went back to 


94 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


the train. The rain poured harder than ever. The bridge 
had finally yielded to the storm and had gone out. A 
few timbers holding the ends of the rails stuck dismally 
out over the roaring freshet. Some of the passengers 
scattered over the town to seek shelter for the night, 
while others camped down in the coaches. Paul went up 
to a little hotel, engaged a room for the night and then 
restlessly went out on the street again. 

He went by a row of shops and came to the town hall. 
The bill boards outside announced a play called “The 
Struggle of the Giants” and the picture on the hand bill 
given out by a man at the entrance showed two foot-ball 
teams engaged in a mix-up on the gridiron. 

More to pass the time than for any other reason Paul 
bought a ticket and went in. The room was a dingy, half- 
lighted place and the small audience was scattered dis- 
mally over it. As Paul went in, the football squad was 
just coming onto the stage to begin the game. 

The plot of the play was very thin, consisting of the 
betrayal of the signals used in secret practice by one of 
the foot-ball teams. Paul had been a player himself in 
the High School at Milton and thoroughly understood 
the game. He was naturally interested in what followed, 
as the teams lined up and the game began. 

There was not much histrionic talent visible in the 
principal characters, but not much was needed, inasmuch 
as the foot-ball game was the principal thing. The players 
went through their parts mechanically and the crowd on 
the grand-stand cheered with frantic enthusiasm to make 
ten people sound like ten hundred. The grand-stand on 
the stage was made out of what looked to Paul like a 
half dozen step-ladders which leaned up against the mar- 


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ble pillars of a nobleman’s palace, which was the regular 
stock in hand piece of scenery owned by the town hall. 
As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light and he 
noted the stage settings more in detail, Paul at last saw 
two faces on the grand-stand that looked familiar. He 
looked harder, and the next moment he was saying to 
himself, “That is Louis Darcy and George Randall with 
him.” 

When the game was interrupted by a sensational bit 
of acting the grand-stand emptied itself into the field. 
In doing so, one of the step-ladders fell over with a crash 
near the front of the stage. The boy who picked it up 
was Louis. Paul was in no farther doubt about it. As 
he sat there waiting for the play to end, he wondered 
what he ought to do. 

Since his mother’s death life had seemed very indiffer- 
ent to him. He had lost interest in much that was once 
real. He was going back to Milton because he did not 
want to be dependent on his father, and because there 
seemed nothing else for him to do. But his heart was 
hard and bitter. The memory of his mother was going 
to be strong enough to keep him from vice and from dis- 
honor. Whether it would keep him from lapsing into a 
great selfishness and a darkness of disbelief, remained 
to be seen. 

But the sight of Louis stirred Paul out of some of his 
indifference. He could not banish the thought of Esther 
Darcy. There was also a feeling of shame in his own 
part that he had failed in his attempt to get Louis away 
from his associations. He was large-minded enough to 
feel no grudge against Louis on account of the incident 
in the theater when he struck him. That was the act 


96 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


of a child. But did he have any duty towards him now ? 
He had promised Mr. Darcy he would do what he could 
to find the boy. But now that he had accidentally run 
across him, how could he persuade him to return home ? 

He was still turning the question over in his mind when 
the play came to an abrupt end. There was some unusual 
disturbance somewhere, something not down on the bill. 
An officer in a muddy splashed blue coat came on the 
stage, followed by an angry stage manager. The foot- 
ball teams stood around disconsolately and the few angry 
words flung back and forth informed the theatrical com- 
pany and the audience that the box receipts had been 
attached by a boarding-house keeper in the town and that 
the theatrical troop was broke and stranded in a little 
junction town with the only railroad bridge in the place 
swept away and a drenching rain-storm beating about 
the place. The players almost mobbed the manager when 
the fact was published that he was absolutely unable to 
pay a cent of salaries which were now two weeks in 
arrears. He finally made his escape by an adroit back- 
ward retreat through a side door. The officer walked 
off triumphantly with the meager receipts. And the 
stranded players scattered dismally in different directions, 
picking up their belongings and cursing the manager and 
the town and the rain and their own hard luck. ‘‘Even 
the walking is no good,” one of them exclaimed, as he 
paused by the smoky foot-lights and put his hand up to 
his ear, listening to the roar of the tempest on the tin 
roof of the town hall. 

Louis and George Randall seemed dazed by the swift 
turn of affairs. They were leaning up against the noble- 
man’s marble columns when Paul came down to the edge 


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of the platform and spoke to them. He had at last de- 
cided on his course. 

“Louis,” he said quietly, as if it were the most natural 
thing in the world for him to be there, “you and George 
come with me. I’ve got a room in the hotel and you 
can bunk with me.” 

“Mr. Douglas,” Louis said in astonishment. He came 
down from the stage and Paul noted as he came nearer 
how wretched he looked. Randall hung sheepishly in the 
rear. 

“Get your things if you have any and come along,” 
Paul said good naturedly. Louis and George went back 
of the scenery and came out, each with a small bundle. 
They followed Paul out of the building and over to the 
hotel. By the time they got there they were all three 
drenched. Paul had a fire built in his room and by dint 
of extra payment succeeded in getting a pie and some 
meat and bread and butter sent up. 

While they were all getting dried out Louis told Paul 
that he and George had been with the company four 
weeks. They had stayed on, hoping to be paid up. That 
night, however, they had decided should be the last and 
they had brought their few belongings down to the hall, 
planning to leave after the performance and make their 
way to the next town. 

Paul listened, asked a few questions, waited until the 
boys had their mouths full of pie and then said quietly, 
“You two kids are going back to Milton with me.” 

“I won't go, said Louis, sullenly. 

George Randall kicked the legs of his chair with his 
heels. “You can stay if you want to, Louis. I’ve had 


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enough. I’m going back if Mr. Douglas will loan me the 
price of the fare. I’m sick of this, I am.” 

“Louis,” said Paul, “what will you do if you don’t go 
home? Your mother is sick in bed on account of you. 
Your father will not be too hard on you. I’ll ask him 
to let you go into High School again.” 

“But the disgrace! The fellows will ” 

“You should have thought of all that before you ran 
away. Come now, I’ll pay the fare all right for both of 
you. You’re half sick anyway, Louis. If you stay here 
you’ve no money, and you’re not fit to work. What can 
you do?” 

Louis looked at Paul for a moment, then broke down 
and cried like a baby. Paul had the good sense to take 
for granted that Louis would go back, and he said nothing 
more. He made the two boys get into the one bed and 
himself camped down on an old lounge in the room. The 
boys were asleep in a few minutes and Paul soon went 
to sleep himself, confident that he would have no trouble 
in getting them back to Milton. His father had insisted 
on his taking a hundred dollars as a loan from Freeman’s 
payment, so he was able to pay the extra fares. As he 
fell asleep he could not avoid a thought of Esther and 
her pleasure at the return of Louis. 

In the morning Paul cheerfully greeted the boys and 
they went down to breakfast. Nothing was said about 
Milton by Paul but after the meal and on the way down 
to the river to see the freshet Louis said, “I’ll go back, 
Mr. Douglas. I don’t know what else to do. If George 
would stay ” 

“I wouldn’t stay away from home any longer for all 
New York and pie three times a day,” said George Ran- 


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dall, emphatically. That settled it for Louis and Paul 
added, “Of course I won’t pay your fares unless you go 
willingly. I can’t handcuff you and make you go without 
making any trouble.” A temporary bridge was built 
over the river by dark and the train started on. The next 
forenoon they were in Milton. 

George Randall was so home-sick that he hardly paused 
long enough to say good-bye to Louis and Paul. As he 
disappeared up the street, Louis nervously clung to Paul. 
“Won’t you go home with me, Mr. Douglas? I don’t 
want to go alone.” 

“Hadn’t you better go right up to the office?” 

“Oh no, I don’t want to go there. I want to go to 
the house. Come on with me. Won’t you? I hate to 
meet mother and Esther all alone.” 

Louis pleaded so hard and looked so nearly sick that 
Paul finally yielded, and they entered a car and went on 
together. Louis was nervous and silent all the way. 
When they got to the door, he was trembling violently. 

“You go first,” he said to Paul. 

“Certainly not,” Paul replied sternly. “Open the door. 
I’ll go in right after you.” 

So Louis opened the door and stepped into the hall, 
Paul close behind him. Esther was just coming down 
the front stairs with a tray on which were the dishes 
from the breakfast she had taken up to her mother. 

At sight of Louis she dropped the tray and everything 
went banging down the stairs. Louis laughed nervously. 
Paul stood by the closed door looking at Esther. The girl 
jumped down two steps at a time through the broken 
dishes and flung her arms around Louis and kissed him 
while she cried for pleasure. 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“O, Louis, Louis, we thought you were dead. Where 
did you come from?” 

Louis drew away from Esther as he said, with some- 
thing of his old mocking humor, “Mr. Douglas found 
me. Better kiss him. He deserves it more than I do.” 

Esther looked at Louis as if she wanted to slap him, 
and the color mounted over her face. But Paul inter- 
posed as if he had not heard. 

“Miss Darcy, I accidentally ran across Louis on my 
way to Milton. It is a great pleasure to me to know 
that he is at home again. Don’t be too hard on him. I 
think the boy is about sick.” 

“O, Mr. Douglas, we can never repay you. Mother 

will be Oh I don’t know how we can And your 

own mother! What a loss to you.” She held out her 
hand and Paul felt strongly moved by her genuine sym- 
pathy. Then Esther turned to Louis. 

“Go right up and see mother, Louis.” 

Louis hung back at the foot of the stairs. 

“I don’t want to go up alone. You come along, you 
and Mr. Douglas.” 

So Esther went first and Louis and Paul followed, 
Esther urging Paul to come. She entered her mother’s 
room to tell her the news. Paul lingered far enough 
behind so as not to seem to intrude, but he could not 
avoid hearing the cry of joy which Mrs. Darcy uttered, 
and when he ventured into the room he saw Louis kneel- 
ing by the bed, his mother’s arms around him, while the 
tears coursed down her cheeks. 

Poor, shallow-minded, careless mother, who herself was 
largely to blame for Louis’ false training. Nevertheless, 
her mother-love wer.t out to him and a few of the best 


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moments the spoiled lad ever knew were those he spent 
now with his mother’s arms around him. After a little he 
got up, looking somewhat ashamed of his feeling and 
relieved when his mother began to greet and question 
Paul. She expressed her great sense of gratitude for 
his part in getting Louis home again, and her great 
sympathy with him in the loss of his mother. 

“We’re so glad you are coming back on the News/' 
Mrs. Darcy said. “You must come out and see us often. 
Come out to dinner tonight, can’t you ?” 

Paul looked at Esther, but declined the invitation on 
the score of need of looking up a room and getting settled. 
He stayed a little longer, but finally said good-bye, telling 
Mrs. Darcy he hoped she would soon be well again, and 
went down stairs. Esther had already gone out and was 
picking up the broken dishes in the hall below. 

It seemed only the gentlemanly thing to do for Paul 
to help her. He did so and when the last piece was 
picked up, he started to go out. Esther’s face was flushed 
deeply, perhaps on account of the exertion of stooping 
over picking up the dishes. 

“I’ve wanted to tell you about my being at the theater 
that night Louis ” 

She stopped suddenly at the look on Paul’s face. He 
feared what she was going to say. The sight of her 
bonny face had renewed his interest in life. If she was 
going to confess now that Bayliss had anything to do 
with her presence at that questionable play, Paul felt 
as if he did not want to hear it. She was a singularly 
frank and outspoken girl and Paul felt quite certain that 
if she thought he was beginning to love her and she was 
not able to return the feeling, she would find some way 


102 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


of letting him know it. Evidently she was eager to 
explain why she could be at the theater listening to such 
a play with Mr. Bayliss. Paul knew so little of girls 
and their ways that he mistrusted his own estimate of 
Esther's conduct. And yet it stole upon him as he waited 
to hear the next word that somehow Esther Darcy was 
very dear to him, and that in some way whether his future 
was going to mean everything or nothing to him, now that 
his mother was gone, depended on whether the girl now 
looking at him so earnestly became a part of his life, or 
went out of it altogether, 


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CHAPTER VI. 

Esther looked shyly at Paul before she spoke again. 
She was, as we have said, a singularly outspoken girl, 
but at the same time she was not bold nor lacking in a 
real charm of maidenly modesty and reserve. Indeed, 
it was that quality in her that attracted Paul more than 
any other. 

“I wanted you to know that I was that if I had 

known beforehand what the real motive of the play was 
that night, I would not have gone. I did not want you 
to think that because I was there I approved of it.” 

“Oh,” Paul said with some embarrassment. 

“You see,” Esther went on eagerly, “our Professor in 
English literature urged the class to attend the play to 
see the acting. He said nothing about it except to com- 
mend the acting.” 

“I suppose the acting was fine,” said Paul, still em- 
barrassed at the thought of Esther confessing all this 
to him. 

“So when Mr. Bayliss asked me to go with him, I went 
without thinking anything about the play itself. And I 
would have been glad to leave the theater if Mr. Bayliss 
had suggested it. But I could not very well suggest it 
to him. So I stayed. I didn’t want you to think I 
stayed because I liked it. I thought it was horrid.” 

“Bayliss ought to have taken you away,” said Paul, 
bluntly, saying just what he thought. Esther looked at 


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him gravely. Then she said, to Paul’s astonishment, 
“Would you have done that?” 

“Yes,” Paul answered, and he looked straight at Esther 
as he said it. 

“But you were at the play yourself.” 

“I went to get material for my story for the Gazette.” 

“Yes, I remember. I read that.” Esther smiled a 
little. The Gazette story had been the talk of the town. 
“You made the theater out to be pretty bad. Didn’t you 
exaggerate some?” 

“The play at the Crown Theater couldn’t have been 
much worse.” 

“That’s true,” Esther said, gravely. Then she shyly 
drew back towards the stairs, hearing her mother’s voice 
calling for something. “We’re so grateful about Louis.” 

“Don’t speak of it,” Paul murmured as he went out. 
On his way to the News office to let Darcy know of his 
arrival he went over Esther’s confession. He felt re- 
lieved that the girl was sensitive to the ethical faults of 
the theater and it re-established her in the place of his 
worship. But he was still in doubt concerning her rela- 
tions to Bayliss. She must think a good deal of him or 
she would have said more in condemnation of his silence 
that night in the theater. And in a morning paper Paul 
had noted the program of the Fine Arts concert and 
Bayliss’ name with Esther’s as playing together the duet 
they had been practicing. The concert was dated for the 
following week. 

He went in to the News office just in time to receive 
a greeting from Darcy as he came out of the telephone 
room, where he had been talking with Esther about Louis* 
return. 


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“It was a fine thing for you to do, Paul. We are all 
deeply indebted to you. Louis has probably learned a 
lesson he will not soon forget.” 

“Don’t be too hard with him, Mr. Darcy. I 
think he is about sick,” Paul spoke, anticipating that 
Darcy would come down heavy on Louis, as he himself 
feared. In fact, Louis went to bed for two weeks and 
Mrs. Darcy rose from hers and took care of him in some 
of the most unselfish moments her motherhood had ever 
known. 

“Oh, I’ll be easy on him,” Darcy replied. “But I think 
he had better come into the News. He’s so far behind 
in his High School work that if he goes back into his 
class he can never catch up.” Paul wanted to say what 
he believed, that if Darcy insisted in putting Louis into 
the News the boy would run away again. But he did 
not feel it to be his business to suggest too much. 

He went out and secured a room and boarding place 
and next day started in on his newspaper work. 

Pie stayed away from the Darcys until the night before 
the Fine Arts concert. Mr. Darcy had said that Louis 
wanted to see him if he would call. So Paul went out in 
the evening and was really glad to note the evident pleas- 
ure Louis exhibited when he stepped into the room. He 
sat down to chat with him a few moments and during 
the pauses in his talk could hear the piano and violin 
going over the now familiar duet. Mr. Bayliss had evi- 
dently improved greatly under the incentive of Esther’s 
enthusiasm. 

“What I wanted to see you for, Mr. Douglas, was 
this,” Louis said, getting up on his elbow with more 
earnestness than he usually exhibited. “Father says I’ve 


106 


PAUL DOUGLAS ; 


got to go into the News when I get well. But I hate news- 
papers. I’ll cut the whole thing before I’ll stay in the of- 
fice. I want you to tutor me so I can go on with my class. 
Will you?” 

Paul was too astonished to answer at once and Louis 
went on, “I’ve talked with mother about it and she’s 
willing. If you can get father to consent, I’ll be awfully 
glad. And I’ll work like, like Walter, to catch up.” 

“Why not Walter or your sister do the tutoring?” Paul 
suggested, to give himself time to think over Louis’ 
sudden proposal. 

“Walter! Esther! Say! Mr. Douglas, did you ever 
have a brother or a sister older than you are ?” 

“No,” said Paul, gravely, “two of my brothers and one 
sister died when they were little children. 

“Well, Walter never could have any patience with me. 
He’s such a scholar himself he can’t stand anything slow. 

And Esther well, you probably think she’s an angel, 

but she can get cross and mad just like any girl. And 
that’s what she would get at me if she tried to teach me.” 

Paul was trying to imagine how Esther looked when 
she was cross and mad, when Mrs. Darcy came into 
the room. 

“Say, mother,” said Louis, eagerly, “make Mr. Douglas 
promise that he will tutor me. I don’t want to go into 
the News. If you and Mr. Douglas will only get father 
to give me another chance, I’ll do my best.” 

“Well,” Mrs. Douglas looked at Paul doubtfully. “I 
am willing as far as I am concerned and would be glad 
to have Louis go on with his studies. Mr. Darcy wants 
him to go to college. But I don’t know as you could 
find time to do tutoring, with all your newspaper work.” 


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“Of course he could, mother. Mr. Douglas is smart. 
He could come up here say three evenings a week and — 

look here mother, I’ve just happened to think that 

perhaps George Randall would go in with me. That 
would make it more interesting for both of us. Won’t 
you go and see Mr. Randall about it?” 

“Yes, I think that would be all right, Louis; what do 
you think, Mr. Douglas?” 

Paul was thinking over the situation. 

“Why, yes, it could be made more interesting with 
two boys than with one.” 

“Would you try it?” Mrs. Darcy asked, while Louis 
sat up higher in bed and looked anxiously at him. 

“I should want to talk it over with Mr. Darcy, and 
think it over. I don’t know that I could find time for it.” 

“Of course you could, Mr. Douglas. Don’t say you 
can’t do it, will you?” Louis pleaded and looked so 
earnest and so different from his usual flippant, careless 
self that Paul promised before he went away that he 
would see Mr. Darcy and talk with him about it. 

When he went down stairs he passed by the library and 
Walter asked him in. 

The more Paul saw of Walter the more he liked him. 
Walter seemed to return his liking, and the two bid fair 
to ripen into a genuine friendship. Paul felt sorry for 
Walter’s isolated position in the family. As is often the 
case, Mrs. Darcy poured out her indulgent sympathy 
mostly on Louis, the prodigal. Esther and Walter clashed 
at several points and were not as congenial as they ought 
to have been, while Mr. Darcy seemed to take a special 
pleasure in criticising Walter and did not sympathize 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


with him in many matters on which the young man had 
very decided convictions. 

So Walter lived a life much by himself and tried* to 
find friendship in books and in literature and debates. In 
the last of his likings he found Paul was enthusiastic and 
companionable. They talked together a little while over 
a question for debate submitted by one of the societies 
and then Walter said, “Don’t you want to go to the con- 
cert tomorrow night? I’ve two tickets and I was going 
with mother, but father is called out of town and mother 
doesn’t want to leave Louis. I’d be glad to have you go 
with me. I think Esther would be pleased, too,” Walter 
added carelessly. 

“Why, yes, I’ll be glad to go. But don’t you want to 
take some girl?” 

“Girl ! What should I want to take a girl for ? They 
can’t do anything but gabble silly nonsense all through 
the concert. I’ll take you for my girl.” 

“That’s complimentary to me after what you just now 
said about girls.” 

Walter laughed. “Well, you can be as silly as you like. 
And I’ll furnish either gum or candy.” 

“I’ll go, then,” said Paul amused at Walter’s dislike for 
girls. “Will you call for me or send a hack?” 

Walter stared. “Can’t you call here on the way out? 
It’s out of the way for me to come down town.” 

Paul laughed again. “But if you ever do happen to 
care for a girl, I pity you if you try to treat her the way 
you propose to treat me.” 

As he went out into the hall he could hear the piano 
and the violin going at a great rate in the music room and 
he was tempted to look in as he went by the parlor door. 


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He could see through into the other room. Both Esther 
and Bayliss were fully absorbed in the music. At least 
Esther was. Paul was not so sure about Bayliss. The 
Fine Arts student stood a little back of Esther, and Paul 
felt certain he looked at her fully as much as at his music 
score. As he went out of the house Paul almost regretted 
his promise to Walter to go to the concert. Why should 
he be one of the large crowd to be present at Bayliss’ 
performance? From what little he had seen of Bayliss, 
Paul was sure he was conceited to a degree. He even 
found himself wishing that something might happen to 
Bayliss to make him fail. Only he was playing with 
Esther and if he failed, it would be very disconcerting 
to her, for she was proud of her music and sensitive to 
every wrong note or phrasing. 

The next morning Paul told Mr. Darcy of Louis’ 
proposal. After a night’s interval the city editor was 
inclined to favor the idea. 

Mrs. Darcy phoned over to Mrs. Randall about George. 
She was delighted at the idea. “By the way,” said Darcy, 
“old Randall was very much pleased at your success in 
getting his boy home. You’ve heard from him, haven’t 
you ?” 

Paul colored. “Yes, he sent me a note of thanks.” 

“With a check, which you returned. It sort of frus- 
trated Randall, as he is not in the habit, he told me, of 
having any money handed back. But it pleased him, on 
the whole. You’ve struck twelve with old Randall. Now, 
if you want to undertake the tutoring of the boys, we 
should all be under obligation. Louis seems ready to 
do his best. I warn you, it will not be all plain sailing, 


110 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


if you undertake it. Louis is spoiled, and I don’t imagine 
he will stay good very long.” 

Paul waited some time before he gave his answer. 

“Til try it, Mr. Darcy. I don’t feel as if I could give 
more than two nights a week to start with.” 

“All right. You arrange the time with Mrs. Darcy 
and the Randalls. We’ll arrange terms that are satis- 
factory. When will you meet with the boys? How 
would it do to take alternate nights at our home and the 
Randalls?” 

“That’s all right.” Paul had been thinking of what it 
might mean to him if he became too frequent a caller at 
the Darcys. He could not hide from himself any longer 
the fact that he was in love with Esther, and he naturally 
anticipated seeing her more or less if he went to the 
house. At the same time, he was uncertain about his 
position, his mind was depressed over his mother’s death 
and his religious convictions were, to a great extent, 
dead in him. All this shaped his feelings and influenced 
his conduct as he agreed to undertake the tutoring of the 
two boys. And all these experiences were active in his 
thought that same night as he sat by Walter Darcy in 
the Assembly Hall at Hope College, an interested lis- 
tener during the concert given by the Fine Arts Depart- 
ment. 

The annual concert was a popular affair, always well 
attended by the student body at Hope and the towns- 
people. The concert began with an orchestral selection. 
Then followed a solo, a quartette, a chorus, another selec- 
tion by the orchestra, and after that the duet by Esther 
and Bayliss. 

Paul had sat through the concert up to this point with- 


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out much interest in it. He was not a musician and did 
not understand music of the classical kind. But he was 
interested in the duet because Esther was going to play, 
and because he had begun to torture his mind with Bay- 
liss. 

As the two came out of the little waiting room at the 
back of the stage and Esther seated herself at the piano, 
Paul admired the girl’s self possession. Walter, who 
really liked his sister, although he often quarreled with 
her, nudged Paul gently, “She looks well, doesn’t she?” 

Paul tried to say yes, calmly, but failed. He did not 
take his eyes off Esther. Walter did not appear to notice. 
Bayliss drew his bow over the violin to tune it, and as 
he did so, everyone understood something had happened. 
Esther started, turned partly around and looked up at 
Bayliss. He drew the bow again over the strings, and 
the faintest possible squeak could be heard over the now 
close listening audience. 

At that moment a group of Juniors seated near the 
stage began to clap noisily. Then a laugh broke out from 
the same quarter. Back where Paul and Walter were 
sitting a loud whisper penetrated. “Soaped ! Somebody’s 
soaped Bayliss’ fiddle!” 

That was what had happened, as it afterwards came 
out. While Bayliss and Esther and the other players 
and singers had been waiting in the little room, some 
Junior, one who hated Bayliss, had soaped his violin 
strings and he stood there now before the great hall 
full of people, looking supremely silly as he sawed away 
in a vain attempt to tune up the doctored instrument. 

For a single moment after he realized the situation, 
Paul felt savagely glad. Then the next second he thought 


112 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


of Esther. She had turned clear around from the piano 
and her face for a second looked absolutely embarrassed 
and overcome by the trick. Paul could see the deep 
blush that flowed over her face, and the no less startling 
white that followed. And then she rose and took two 
steps to a chair, on which lay a violin and bow belonging 
to one of the orchestra players who had left the instru- 
ment there after the last number. She almost snatched 
the soaped violin and bow out of Bayliss’ hands and 
thrust the other violin and bow into them. 

The audience saw and started to applaud. Bayliss 
looked confused and uncertain. 

“The great chump !” Paul muttered. “What more does 
he want ? Esther can’t very well play it for him !” 

A hiss went whistling over the heads of the Juniors 
from a group of Sophomores seated behind them. Bay- 
liss pulled himself together as Esther struck the note. 
He tuned the violin and stepped out to play. Every one 
was breathless. Bayliss had recovered his self-possession 
and evidently had determined to redeem the situation. 
Paul had to confess he had never heard him play so 
brilliantly. As for Esther, she seemed inspired. Her 
playing was more than brilliant, it was illuminating, it 
sustained the violin without being too dominant or too 
weak. It was a perfect illustration of what a violin 
accompaniment should be, for the main part was in Bay- 
liss’ hands, not hers. 

When the duet was finished the audience almost rose 
to applaud. The Sophomores did get up and yelled “Bay- 
liss, Bayliss !” for two minutes. There were even cries of 
“Miss Darcy” from enthusiastic admirers. Bayliss and 
Esther had to come back and give the encore, and the 


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applause for that was long and loud. 

When the concert was over and the people were going 
out, every one was talking over the incident of the soaped 
violin. Before half the people were out of the hall a 
scrap was going on between the Juniors and Sophomores. 
For a minute it looked as if there would be more or less 
danger to clothing, furniture and hymn books, but some 
of the professors intervened and the scrap was trans- 
ferred to the campus outside. As Paul and Walter 
walked along back to the Darcys they could hear the 
yells of the two classes as they were reinforced by addi- 
tional numbers coming out of the boarding houses. Wal- 
ter, being a dignified senior and being one of a very few 
who had a strong contempt for “clothes tearing rows,” 
as he called them, went along with Paul, commenting on 
the concert. 

“Esther pulled Bayliss out of the hole. Good thing 
for him he had nerve enough to go on as he did. Esther 
would never have had any respect for him if he hadn’t.” 

“I suppose your sister thinks a good deal of him,” 
Paul ventured to say. 

“O, I suppose so. You never can tell just what a girl 
does think. I never had much use for him, myself. But 
I must say he beat himself playing tonight. Esther was 
pleased with his performance.” 

“She did unusually well, herself, I thought,” Paul said 
with an effort. 

“O, Esther is bright and quick.” Walter said it with 
a chuckle. “The way she grabbed that fiddle off that 
chair and shoved it into Bayliss’ hands was fine. It was 
worth the price of admission if there hadn’t been any- 
thing else on the program.” 


114 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


When they reached the house Walter insisted on Paul’s 
coming in. They were sitting in the library talking over 
the concert when Esther and Bayliss entered. 

Paul had never seen Esther when she looked so beauti- 
ful. The incident of the evening had roused her and her 
eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and her whole bearing 
breathed of victory. Bayliss sat down, took out his violin 
and examined it, vowing vengeance on the Junior who 
had done it. 

“I know almost to a certainty it was Crawford. He 
came in while the orchestra was concluding and pretended 
he had dropped a sheet out of his score. It was while 
he was down in the corner near my music that he did the 
trick.” 

“Why should Crawford want to do a thing like that?” 
Walter asked, looking at Bayliss. 

Bayliss looked embarrassed and looked at Esther. 
Esther looked angrily at Walter, and then, to Bayliss’ 
confusion, turned her back on the three young men and 
walked out of the room. 

Walter whistled. “I didn’t know I had stepped on 
any one’s toes by asking that question. Seems I did, 
though. Not only stepped on toes, but run somebody 
down and then over. Is it a secret ?” 

Bayliss bent over his violin and muttered, “I’ve nothing 
to say.” 

Walter went on in his usual blunt, open fashion. 
“Crawford hasn’t been going with Esther for some time. 
I suppose it has something to do with their quarrel.” 

Bayliss maintained a dignified silence and Paul re- 
spected it if he were shielding Esther from some em- 
barrassment, but he felt unspeakably troubled in the 


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thought that all this talk covered history with which he 
had nothing to do. 

He had risen to go when Walter said, again speaking 
carelessly, but directing his remarks to Paul this time, 
“You see Esther and Crawford were engaged about a 
year ago and when it was broken off I suppose there 
were some splinters in both ends.” 

Bayliss turned red and Paul felt angry with him and 
Walter. The most provoking thing about Walter was 
his outspoken contempt for girls and all their queer 
habits. And while he truly loved and admired Esther, 
he was not above flinging out at her sometimes in very 
unbrotherly fashion. 

“I’ll be going,” Paul said stiffly. “Good night.” He 
went away as abruptly as on that other night when he 
found Bayliss practicing with Esther, and this time he 
carried with him a very disagreeable feeling in regard 
to her. 

She had been engaged and she was now encouraging 
Bayliss. The last thing in the world Paul had ever 
thought of Esther was that she was a flirt or a coquette. 
She was earnest, even seriously so. She did not have 
the characteristics of a girl who would trifle. And yet 
Paul’s idol was damaged. His worship received a hard 
blow that evening. He did not see how he could con- 
tinue to think the same of Esther. It is, of course, one 
of the astonishing things about nearly all young men 
that they demand in the young woman all the innocence 
and virtue and goodness imaginable and do not seem 
to consider that the young women have just the same 
right to demand that the young men have the same un- 
smirched character. But are they under any more moral 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


obligation than the young men ? There are not two laws 
of conduct in the moral universe, one for men and an- 
other for women. There is only one law and it applies 
equally to both sexes. 

But Paul felt very sore over the blunt statement Walter 
had blurted out. His feeling was intensified by the 
realization that Esther had come to mean more to him 
than he dared measure. He thought of his agreement to 
tutor Louis, to go to the house when the possibility of 
meeting Esther would either add to his love of her or 
increase his present unhappiness, and he was half minded 
to go to Darcy and tell him he had reconsidered his 
promise. 

In the morning, however, he faced all this new ex- 
perience somewhat grimly, and decided to go on with the 
tutoring. He met the boys next evening at the Randalls 
for the first lesson. 

Mr. Randall was a large, pompous man, who had made 
a big fortune speculating in copper. Mrs. Randall was 
another type like Mrs. Darcy, and George was the spoiled 
product of a home which was stuffed almost as full of 
expensive things as a national museum. 

“If you can make a scholar out of George, Mr. Doug- 
las/* said Randall, as Paul started upstairs with the 
boys, “Pll give you a block of gilt-edge stock.’* 

Randall’s idea of paying for any service was always 
inside the dollar mark, and he regarded Paul with curios- 
ity because he had returned the check he had sent him 
for getting George home. 

“We’ll see what we can do,” Paul said, as he went 
upstairs. 

Once in George’s room where the lessons were to be 


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taught, Paul surveyed his two charges somewhat doubt- 
fully. Louis was looking peaked, and pale from his 
recent illness. George, who was short and thick-set, like 
his father, always had a habit of kicking his heels against 
whatever he was sitting on, and was exasperatingly slow 
of speech and intellect. He was in the habit of chewing 
caramels or some sort of candy, and Paul took ad- 
vantage of the position he had assumed as tutor to lay 
down a few stringent rules. 

“To start with, if Pm going to do anything with you 
fellows, two things have got to be cut out. I’ll have no 
cigarette smoking and no candy chewing.” 

Louis looked sullen and George suddenly put one hand 
down into his side coat pocket and kept it there. 

“Can’t a fellow smoke once in a while ?” whined Louis. 

“No! You’ve got to quit it. I won’t have it. If you 
want me to do this work you must obey the rules. There 
won’t be many, but you must obey what we have. And 
if you have any cigarettes or candy with you now, I want 
you to throw them into the fire.” 

“Well,” said George, “I can stand it, I guess.” He 
got up slowly and emptied about half a pound of gum 
drops into the fire-place. “Your turn,” he said to Louis, 
as he went slowly back to his seat. 

Louis rose half angrily and flung a broken package 
of cigarettes into the fire. Paul laughed. 

“Good beginning. Now, then, fellows, the only other 
rules are these; study while you study. Master every 
little point. Ask questions if in doubt. And take for 
granted that you are going to win out.” 

At the end of an hour Paul felt encouraged. Spurred 
by his own enthusiasm the two boys outdid themselves. 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


When the time was up, Paul banged the books together 
on the table. 

“Good! Fine opening. Now let’s have a little exer- 
cise.” 

He seized a pair of Indian clubs which were in the 
corner and swung them hard. 

“I’ll teach you boys club swinging and boxing if you 
want.” 

“We’ve got a kind of gym up in the attic at our house,” 
Louis said eagerly. “Can’t we go up there after lessons?” 

“No reason why not!” Paul said, pleased that Louis 
suggested it. “I’ll trim you up for the team. You’re 
both logy.” 

“I can swing the clubs,” George said with some pride. 
To prove it he seized one of them and after a few fairly 
good movements he let the handle slip out of his fat 
fingers. Louis, who was in line with the flying club, 
dodged it and it struck the corner of a costly book-case 
and made a dent in the wood. 

“Yes, I see you can swing it all right,” Paul said, as 
he picked up the club. “It’s better not to swing it quite 
so far.” 

Louis laughed and the first lesson ended good naturedly. 

The next lesson was to be at the Darcys. Paul dreaded 
going. He said to himself he was going to tutor the 
boys, not to make a call. But he felt uncomfortable and 
at the same time hoped he might see Esther. In the next 
moment he hoped he would not see her. 

When the door was opened by the servant, Paul went 
upstairs at once, to Louis’ room, as the arrangement had 
been made. He saw no one on the way up. The two 
boys were there waiting for him and the lesson went on 


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very much to Paul’s satisfaction. As the moments slip- 
ped by, Paul realized that he was regarded by the boys 
with hero worship. He did not know it, but his club 
swinging had made a profound impression on George. 
Louis also had in his shallow thinking a deep-seated 
respect for physical prowess. He had little of it himself, 
being naturally a coward, but he was prepared to join 
George in the hero worship as fast as he should discover 
that Paul was equal to it. 

When the hour was up Louis said, “Now, Mr. Douglas, 
can we go up to the attic?” 

“All right. I have half an hour.” 

Louis led the way and ushered Paul and George into 
the roomy high-ceiled attic, fitted up with a few pieces 
of gymnastic furniture. “Walter got this fixed up,” 
Louis said. “But he doesn’t use it much and we can 
have it most any time.” 

Paul started the two boys going with the clubs and 
after they had learned one new movement he gave them 
a boxing lesson. He had just started to take his gloves 
off and put on his coat preparatory to leaving, when the 
door at the top of the attic stairs opened and Bayliss 
looked in. 

“Is Walter here?” he said, as he paused by the open 
door. 

“No,” said Paul, as he took off his gloves and pro- 
ceeded to put on his collar. 

“Well, you’ll do just as well, perhaps. I want to talk 
with you about something if these kids will retire.” 

Paul stared at Bayliss, and Louis and George looked 
very much interested, but made no movement to leave. 

Bayliss went up to Paul and said in a low tone, “I 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


want to speak about Miss Darcy. Tell these kids to get 
out.” 

Paul looked astonished at Bayliss. But Bayliss looked 
very serious and Paul asked Louis and George to go down 
stairs. As they went out, he faced the fine arts student 
in great wonder and some trepidation. Bayliss’ first 
words did not lessen his astonishment, although he had 
never spoken a dozen words to Bayliss and had no feeling 
toward him except one of jealousy. Bayliss looked 
squarely at Paul as he began. 


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CHAPTER VII. 

“Walter was wrong the other night when he said Miss 
Darcy and Crawford had been engaged. They never 
were, and Walter said what he did that night to nag me.” 

Paul stared in astonishment at this confession. He 
kept his self-possession, however, and simply looked cold- 
ly at Bayliss. 

“ Walter won’t listen to me. He thinks or pretends to 
think that I am going to get even with Crawford for his 
trick because of old history, because his sister dislikes 
Crawford and would be pleased to see him punished. As 
a fact, Miss Darcy has got prejudiced at me on account of 
what Walter said. You noticed the other night I didn’t 
say anything?” 

“Yes,” Paul managed to say. He thought to himself, 
“you’re making up for it now.” 

“Well, I kept still on Es — Miss Darcy’s account. 
I knew the whole subject was distasteful to her. She 
thinks I ought to have denied Walter’s statement. But 
you were present and I thought it best not to discuss 
things.” 

Paul was still silent, wondering greatly what all this 
was leading up to. 

Bayliss seemed a little embarrassed but not on Paul’s 
account. Paul was just beginning to get a glimpse ©f 
the fellow’s boundless egotism and self-absorption. 

“Miss Darcy is at outs with Walter, and she well, 

she has become prejudiced against me, and I came up 


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PAUL DOUGLAS : 


to see Walter and talk things over, but seeing yo f 4 nt&ds 
me think that perhaps you had a good deal of influence 
with Walter, and could get him to see things as they 
are, or tell Miss Darcy. You’re a great friend of the 
family. Miss Darcy always speaks of you with great 
respect. And Walter would listen to you. She has got 
the idea that the other night, after she had gone out, we 
sat there and discussed that old affair of Crawford. 
Crawford was over head and ears in love with her and 
all the college knew it. But I knew she never cared for 
him. She was annoyed by his attentions. But Walter 
has somehow given her the impression that I was ready 
to rake up the whole affair. You saw how I acted. I 
kept still. A word from you to Walter or Miss Darcy 
would help me.” 

Bayliss paused and Paul stared at him. The humor 
of the situation was beginning to get hold of Paul. He 
was beginning to appreciate Bayliss. Bayliss was the 
son of a stockbroker in New York. He had a most 
exalted idea of his own importance. Paul Douglas was 
to him only a newspaper reporter and a tutor to Louis. 
But he had influence with the Darcys on account of old 
family connections and especially on account of his re- 
cent rescue of Louis. Why should not he, Bayliss, use 
any leverage he could find to reinstate himself in Miss 
Darcy’s good will ? She had become necessary to him and 
as far as he was capable of loving any one in addition to 
himself, he had begun to love her. 

Paul read all this in Bayliss’ motive, not there in the 
attic gymnasium but partly there, and in part long after- 
wards. Enough of the truth, however, was clear to him 
now to enable him to say to Bayliss, 


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“So you want me to speak a word for you to Miss 
Darcy ?” 

“Well, you might set her right on the facts the other 
evening; you know I was silent about Crawford, while 
you were present. And Walter left the room as soon as 
you did, almost, so nothing was said. But Walter doesn’t 
like me, and he’s continued to make Miss Darcy believe 
that all my purpose in getting even with Crawford for 
soaping my violin is to make talk in college about that 
affair. Why, sooner than do that, I’d let Crawford alone. 
I don’t think he came out of it very well the night of the 
concert.” 

The boundless egotism of Bayliss was beginning to 
affect Paul’s sense of humor again. He was ready with 
an answer when Bayliss again said, “Would you mind 
saying a word to Miss Darcy?” 

“Not at all, I’ll be glad to speak to her.” 

“Tell her there was nothing said by me, will you?” 

“Yes, I’m sure you didn’t say anything worth talking 
about.” 

“Yes, that’s it,” Bayliss said, eagerly. “Well, I’m much 
obliged, Mr. Douglas. I’ll do as much for you some time.” 

“Will you? I’ll appreciate it,” Paul said with a chuckle, 
as he proceeded to put on his coat. 

Bayliss eyed the boxing gloves and took one of them 
off a chair where Paul had thrown it. 

“Aren’t they rather light weight?” Bayliss said, putting 
the glove on. 

“Maybe. Depends on what’s behind ’em.” 

“You giving the kids lessons?” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s fine exercise. I used to go to Amber of the New 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


York athletic club; I suppose you’re up on Amber’s first 
defense.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m only an amateur.” 

Bayliss balanced the glove and lifted it up and down. 

“Do you want to have a bout with me? I’ve got a 
few minutes to spare.” 

Paul looked at Bayliss a moment. Then he took off 
his coat and began to unbutton his collar. 

“I don’t mind. But I don’t expect I can do anything 
with one of Amber’s pupils.” 

“O, I never took more than a dozen lessons. I expect 
I’ve forgotten nearly everything.” 

The tone of the remark belied the statement and irri- 
tated Paul for a moment. He thought he could detect in 
it a covert sneer, as if Bayliss had said to himself “I’ll 
teach him a thing or two.” 

As he faced Bayliss he realized that his fine arts stu- 
dent was half a head taller than himself, also that he 
had an unusually long arm reach. After the first few 
feints and passes he also realized that Bayliss had had 
professional instruction and knew more than he did about 
the art of self defense, if it is an art. 

The knowledge did not tend to cool Paul or add to his 
self possession. But after the first dozen blows had been 
struck he exaggerated the possibility of being beaten by 
Bayliss. He felt as if somehow it would be a bitter dis- 
grace. The knowledge that the student was an uncon- 
scious rival entered into his feeling somewhat, but did 
not affect him so much as the fear of being beaten on his 
own ground. Bayliss could play the violin and he 
couldn’t. If he should beat him now at boxing Paul felt 
as if his prestige with Esther would be great. 


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From his position on the floor he faced the attic door 
and during the first passage with Bayliss he saw the door 
slowly open and Louis and George peered into the attic 
with intensely interested faces. In fact, the boys had 
never gone down stairs at all, but had remained at the 
head of them and listened to the conversation, a large 
part of which they had heard. Now that a boxing match 
was going on they gave way to their curiosity and opened 
the door facing Paul. Bayliss had his back to them and 
was unconscious of their presence. 

Paul felt that Bayliss’ superior knowledge would in the 
end settle the contest, and he determined to rush the spar- 
ring fast as his only hope. Bayliss saw his purpose and 
interposed twice with blows that sent Paul nearly off 
his feet. He regained his temper, which he had almost 
lost, and managed to push Bayliss back across the floor 
towards the big chimney in the center of the attic. As 
he parried a blow aimed at his head, Paul got in a return 
blow that hit Bayliss square on the chest. As the sound 
of the blow went through the room, Louis called out, 
“Good! Good! give him another, Mr. Douglas!” 

Bayliss was startled by the cry. He turned his head 
and Paul lowered his gloves. But Bayliss, as he whirled 
around, stepped on an Indian club which was lying on the 
floor where Louis had thrown it. The club rolled out 
from under the student’s foot as if he had trod on glare 
ice. He lost his balance and went down heavily, striking 
his head with great force on the corner of the chimney. 

Paul tore his glove off instantly and ran over to Bayliss 
and knelt down by him. The blood was trickling out of 
the wound on the side of his head and he was unconscious. 
Louis and George ran into the attic looking scared. 


126 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“Go down and get some water,’’ Paul said, as he un- 
buttoned Bayliss’ shirt collar and felt of his head. 

Louis ran down stairs and when he came back Esther 
was with him. As she came up to where Bayliss lay, 
he stirred and opened his eyes at Paul. 

“You struck me when I wasn’t looking,” he said thickly. 

Paul got up quietly and began to put on his collar. 
Louis looked at him to see if he was not going to deny 
Bayliss’ statement. Paul was silent and Louis said in- 
dignantly, “He never ! George and I saw the whole 
thing. When Mr. Bayliss turned his head Mr. Douglas 
put down his hands. Didn’t he, George?” 

“Looked like it to me.” 

“He struck me when I wasn’t looking,” Bayliss repeated 
again. He sat up and put his hand to the wound on his 
head. Esther looked grave. She had the bowl of water 
in her hand. The blood was running over Bayliss’ face 
and down over his shirt sleeve. Suddenly he seemed to 
faint and fell back on the floor. Esther uttered a cry of 
dismay and, getting down near him, applied the water to 
the wound. Paul finished dressing and moved towards 
the door. 

“O, Mr. Douglas, won’t you help to get him down 
stairs? Pm sure he’s badly hurt,” cried Esther, looking 
up. 

“I don’t think he’s fatally injured, Miss Darcy,” Paul 
replied coldly. It was agony to him to see Esther bathing 
Bayliss’ face with the water. 

“Throw the water into his face,” cried Louis, “that’ll 
bring him to.” 

“Louis Darcy ! Shame on you !” Esther cried, but Bay- 
liss stirred again and this time a faint color crept over 


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his cheeks. He sat up and eyed Paul and Louis sullenly. 

“I’ll be all right. You needn’t trouble to wait. I have 
my opinion of a fellow who would hit a boxer when he 
wasn’t looking.” 

If Bayliss had not been in the position and condition 
he was, Paul certainly would have struck him. As it 
was, he shut his teeth together hard while his face turned 
deadly white. Esther looked at him again gravely. Paul 
returned her look almost fiercely, but did not offer any 
reply to Bayliss. And then he went out of the attic and 
down stairs. 

Near the foot of the stairs he met Walter. 

“What’s the matter ?” he asked, as he looked at Paul. 

“Nothing much.” Paul was too angry to talk. Walter 
did not press him. And just then Esther called out at 
the head of the stairs. 

“O, Walter, is that you? Won’t you come up here and 
help Mr. Bayliss down? He’s hurt.” 

Walter shrugged his shoulders and went up into the 
attic and Paul went down and out of the house, feeling 
very sore over the incident. What angered him most was 
the thought Esther could possibly care for a fellow like 
Bayliss, who was a liar and an insufferable egotist. Bay- 
liss, of course, in his dazed condition, might have imag- 
ined that Paul had struck him while his head was turned 
to see Louis. But Paul knew that he had not taken ad- 
vantage of him and Louis had testified to the fact. Yet 
Esther had seemed very solicitous over Bayliss, and Paul 
naturally resented her conduct under the circumstances. 
He said as he went to his room that night, “It’s all over 
for me. If she can care for a chump like Bayliss she is 


128 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


not the girl I can care for. I have lost my respect for 
her.” 

He said all that to himself but in reality he could not 
bring himself to believe it. Yet when he waked up to 
his regular newspaper work the next morning he was as 
nearly wretched and unhappy as he had ever been in all 
his life. 

The manner in which he had accepted his mother’s 
death had left him without any religious place of confi- 
dence or hope. At this time in his life Paul Douglas 
was in that condition when he might easily go either one 
of two ways. He might give himself up to a life of 
dissipation and seek amusement in a fast expenditure of 
God’s sacred gifts. Or he might develop a hard, cynical 
character, using his literary talents to minister to his 
pride, or in the building up of an ambition which would be 
purely intellectual with no warm human touch in it. His 
reverence for his mother and his early training made the 
first of these courses of action practically impossible for 
him. But he could easily drift into the other way, with 
no loss of self respect, and he now began to yield himself 
to the impulse to make his literary ability minister to his 
ambition at the loss of some of the finer ethical qualities 
he had started out with. The temptation to do that in 
a newspaper office is strong, and resistance to it requires 
what Paul at this period did not possess, that is, a deep 
and fundamental religious conviction which gives a man 
keen and sensitive points of contact with matters of right 
and wrong and with the better good. 

As the days went by even Darcy noted the subtle change 
in Paul. He spoke to him one day when there was a lull 
in the affairs of the office. 


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“What’s the matter with you, Paul? You don’t seem 
like your old self. Aren’t you feeling well?” 

Paul was really startled by the question coming from 
Darcy. 

“Yes, I’m well enough,” he tried to answer carelessly. 

“How r are the boys getting on? They’re not worrying 
you, are they?” 

“Not specially. Louis needs constant spurring up. 
I’ve forbidden cigarettes; but I’m afraid he is using them 
on the sly.” 

Darcy looked very much annoyed. “That boy needs 
a Reform School or a Military academy education. I 
don’t know what we shall do with him.” 

Paul was relieved to direct the conversation from him- 
self to Louis. He was in many ways discouraged with 
him, and if the boy was deceiving him now in the matter 
of cigarettes, he had almost made up his mind to abandon 
the tutoring. 

The next morning when Darcy came into the office he 
greeted Paul as usual and then said, “Come to dinner 
with us tonight. You haven’t been since you returned. 
Mrs. Darcy sends you a warm invitation and the rest of 
the family second it. It’s your night with the boys, and 
we want you to come.” 

Paul’s first impulse was to refuse. Then he thought, 
“well, why not? I don’t have to meet Esther except at 
the table with the others.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy, I’ll come,” he said, and all 
day long he was anticipating the evening. 

He purposely waited until he felt certain dinner would 
be served before he presented himself at the house. It 
was a relief to him when he entered, to meet Walter first 


130 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


as he was passing through the hall. He went into the 
library a few moments and then out into the dining room. 
Esther was not present at the table and Mrs. Darcy 
excused her by saying she was not feeling very well and 
was not coming down. 

Paul was disappointed. As the meal went on and he 
sat there looking at the empty chair at Esther’s place, he 
had a great longing to see her. She was avoiding him. 
Why? Since the incident of Bayliss’ accident Paul had 
been to the house three times for the tutoring, going 
straight up to Louis’ room, but he had not had a glimpse 
of Esther and she had not been practicing the piano as 
usual. Why should she seek to avoid him? Had she 
believed Bayliss’ account of the boxing? Had she inter- 
preted Paul’s silence as a proof that he had struck Bay- 
liss a coward’s blow? He did not know what to say or 
think, but roused himself to be polite to Mrs. Darcy and 
do his part in the table talk. 

Louis seemed unusually communicative. He was look- 
ing and acting nervous and Paul felt more convinced than 
ever that the boy was not dealing fairly with him. He 
seemed, however, eager to keep in Paul’s good will and 
one remark that he made was so evidently pointed that 
way that Paul did not mistake it. 

Paul had asked in a casual way how Bayliss was; 
whether he was all right again. 

Walter answered the question. “Oh, he’s all right. I 
saw him going into the Concert Hall this afternoon. He 
wasn’t seriously damaged.” 

“But you ought to have seen the one Douglas handed 
him on the chest that night. I could feel the wind of it 
where I stood,” Louis broke in. And then added, “Must 


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have sort of knocked out his violin practicing. I notice 
he hasn’t been round here since.” 

So Bayliss was not coming to the house. What did 
that mean? Had Esther forbidden him ? Paul asked the 
question with some tumult of spirit. But nothing more 
was said that enlightened him, and after visiting a little 
while with Mrs. Darcy and Walter after dinner, he went 
upstairs to Louis’ room when George came. 

Everything went wrong that night. In the first place, 
the boys had shirked their lessons and when Paul good 
naturedly excused it and began on a review, they revealed 
an unexpected depth of ignorance concerning some Greek 
paradigms which made Paul feel like throwing the lex- 
icon at their heads. George kicked the rounds of his 
chair incessantly until Paul made him sit on a lounge and 
put one of the pillows under his feet. George obeyed 
with provoking cheerfulness and in ten minutes had 
kicked a hole in the pillow, so that a little cloud of downy 
feathers soared up around his head. Louis was exasper- 
ating beyond measure. He had forgotten all the things 
Paul had tried to drive into him. He made frightful 
guesses at the meaning of Latin verbs until Paul was on 
the verge of nervous prostration. Finally, when, to cap 
the climax, he translated “Cum Caesar clamor populi 
exaudit” “When Caesar he saw the noise of the people,” 
Paul exploded. 

“That’ll do. Of all the stupid numskulls in Milton, 
yours takes the prize. Take the same review next time. 
And add two pages of advance.” 

George stopped kicking his pillow and looked fright- 
ened. Louis was sullen and a red spot flamed out on each 
cheek. 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“That’s too much. The lessons are too hard. We can’t 
get them,” he said sulkily. 

“You don’t study, that’s what ails you. And besides, 
you needn’t expect to have any brains to speak of as long 
as you keep on smoking cigarettes,” Paul rejoined, mak- 
ing a shrewd guess at Louis’ condition. 

Louis flamed up again. “You’ve no right to make any 
such rule.” 

“It was understood when we began the lessons. You’ve 
broken the rule.” 

“I haven’t,” Louis blurted out, but he did not look Paul 
in the face. 

Paul was angry. “You have. You’ve been smoking 
today. Can’t I see your fingers? And I’d be willing to 
swear you have cigarettes in your pocket now.” 

“I haven’t!” Louis retorted, angrily. “You can’t prove 
it.’’ 

Paul was exasperated beyond endurance. He was 
within arm’s length of Louis and he suddenly seized him 
and, in spite of his cries and struggles, put his hand down 
into his coat pocket and pulled out a package of cigarettes. 
As they came out, the band around them broke and the 
cigarettes flew all over the floor. 

Paul eyed Louis with profound contempt. If there 
was anything he loathed it was a falsehood. Louis, now 
that he w r as detected, had ceased his struggles as Paul let 
go of him, and had fallen back into a chair trying to brave 
it out, but making a dismal failure of it. 

“I was only fooling, Mr. Douglas. I wanted to see 
what you would do.” 

“Well, you’ve seen. But I’m done with you, Louis. I 
give you up. This is the last of the tutoring. I’ll go on 


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with George, but it’s no use to try you any more.” 

Louis turned pale. “Don’t say that, Mr. Douglas. 
I’ll quit the cigarettes this time. Honor, I will. You 
don’t know what a hunger I have for them. You never 
had it and don’t understand.” 

“It’s no use, Louis. I don’t trust you. You’ve been 
deceiving me right along.” 

“Try me once more, won’t you? Truly I promise, Mr. 
Douglas, I’ll keep it this time.” 

“No,” said Paul, shortly. He turned to George. “I’ll 
go on with you at your room as usual, George, day after 
tomorrow.” He turned his back on the boys as he went 
out. 

The upstairs hall contained a large reading table and 
was always lighted up. As Paul walked along to the 
stairway he saw Esther seated at this table. She ro^e 
as he was going by and said, “Good evening, Mr. Doug- 
las.” 

“Good evening, Miss Darcy,” Paul replied gravely, 
and was passing on without any more words, when Esther 
said timidly, “How are you getting on with the tutor- 
ing?” 

“Not very well. I’m not going to tutor Louis any 
longer.” 

“Not going to tutor him any more?” Esther’s voice 
was eager and anxious. 

“Louis has been lying to me. I made a rule at the 
beginning of the lessons that he must give up smoking. 
He has broken the rule and in addition he has lied to me. 
I can’t go on with him any more.” 

“O! O! Mr. Douglas!” Esther rose and took a step 
towards him. As she came nearer Paul could see she 


134 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


had been crying. The sight disarmed him somewhat 
and added to his embarrassment but did not change his 
purpose. He had been too deeply stirred and angered 
by Louis to change or relent quickly. 

“How dreadful of Louis! What will become of that 
boy? O, what can be done with him?” 

“Your father said today that he might have to put him 
in a Reform School or a Military Academy.” 

Esther was deeply agitated. She took another step 
nearer Paul, and tears came into her eyes as she ex- 
claimed, 

“How dreadful! It would ruin Louis to go to either 
place. Can’t you do anything? Can’t you go on with 
the tutoring and give Louis another chance?” 

“I don’t feel as if it would do any good. He is incor- 
rigible. He would deceive me again.” 

“How do you know he would?” 

“But I feel pretty certain.” 

“But you don’t really know. Louis has been spoiled. 
But if you give him up and he hears of father’s hint 
about the Reform School he will run away again, and 
never come back. O, won’t you give him another chance ?” 

Paul was -fast losing his resentment. Esther made her 
plea so strongly, she looked at him so eagerly that he 
might at that moment have promised to try Louis again 
if he had not caught sight of a piece of music on the 
table where Esther had been sitting. It was the familiar 
duet which she and Bayliss had played at the concert. 
And Paul hardened in spirit at the memory of it. 

“I can’t take Louis again. He lied to me twice. He is 
a cigarette fiend. It is almost as bad a habit in some boys 
as morphine or cocaine. I don’t believe He can break it. 


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I’m willing to do almost anything, but I don’t feel as if 
I could forgive Louis for lying to me as he did.” 

Esther unclasped her hands and let them fall at her 
side. She looked Paul straight in the face as she said, 

“And have you never had to be forgiven for any thing 
wrong more than once or twice ? Did your mother never 

have to be patient with you ” Esther noted the look 

on Paul’s face. It was a look of anguish at the recollec- 
tion of one particular breach of good faith on his part 
when he had wounded his mother grievously. At sight 
of it Esther stepped up to him impulsively. 

“O, Mr. Douglas, pardon me. I did not mean to hurt 
your feelings. It was unkind in me. Forget it.” She 
laid her hand on his arm and for a second Paul was 
tempted to relent in the matter of Louis. But the next 
thing Esther did, completely upset his cold determination 
to refuse her request. 

She stepped back to the table and sat down and laid 
her head on her arms and began to cry. 

The sight of her in that forlorn attitude gave Paul a 
sensation which was entirely new to him. He had never 
had any sisters and in all his life he had never seen a girl 
cry as Esther was crying. He was standing six feet from 
the table and he had the strongest desire to walk across 
that impossible gulf and put his hand on the head, the 
face of which was hidden from him, and tell Esther that 
she ought not to cry, for he loved her and couldn’t bear 
to see her in trouble. But he stood still where he was 
and after what seemed a long time, though in reality it 
was only a few seconds, he managed to say in a voice 
that trembled a little, 

“Miss Darcy, I’ll give Louis one more trial.” 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


Esther leaped up and brushed away the tears, a look 
of shame and of pleased surprise confronting Paul. 

“O, will you? How good of you!” 

She looked so lovely to Paul with the smile that 
gleamed through her tears that he could not help himself. 
He took two steps nearer the table. 

‘‘Pm not doing it for his sake altogether, Miss Darcy. 
You understand that, don’t you?” 

Esther bowed her head and blushed. She turned her 
face away from Paul and her lips trembled. Then she 
looked up at him again and said quite distinctly, “Yes, 
I understand.” 

And then she backed around the table quickly and 
turned and went into her room. Paul heard the door 
shut and still stood there. What he had said amounted to 
a confession to Esther. And she had not seemed angry. 

On the contrary she looked how did she look? Her 

eyes what were the color of them? Blue? Gray? 

When she asked Paul if he had never to be forgiven they 
were surely gray. But just now when she said “Yes, I 
understand,” they had certainly been blue. On the whole 
Paul was not as unhappy as he had been when he came 
into the hall. He went back to Louis’ room and knocked. 
Getting no answer, he knocked again, and then turned the 
handle of the door but could not open. The door was 
evidently locked. 

He listened and then called Louis’ name but got no 
answer. After waiting till he was a little ashamed he 
went down stairs. 

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had gone out to some entertain- 
ment. Walter was alone in the library and Paul stepped 
in for a little visit. He did not think it was necessary 


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to tell Walter anything about the incident of the evening, 
although the locked-up room disturbed him, and now that 
he had made up his mind to go on with the tutoring he 
was anxious to see Louis and tell him. 

Walter was unusually communicative. 

“You heard what Louis said tonight about Bayliss. 
Well, he’s got his coup de grace from Esther, I think. At 
any rate he hasn’t been around since the boxing affair. 
Esther cross-examined the boys about Bayliss’ statement 
that you hit him when he wasn’t looking, and I think she 
believed them. But why didn’t you clear yourself? I 
thought you would like to have Esther know that you 
were being falsely accused.” 

“I didn’t think it was necessary to say anything. The 
boys happened to be good witnesses.” 

“In this case. But, unfortunately, Louis hasn’t always 
told the truth to Esther or to me.” 

The remark seemed to give Paul a good excuse for 
giving Walter a brief account of the cigarettes and Louis' 
subsequent falsehood. Paul spoke of it because he wanted 
Walter’s help. 

“Look here, Walter,” Paul said, when Walter started 
to explode over Louis’ degeneracy: “You must come to 
the rescue. Louis really admires you at a great distance, 
but you don’t help him as a big brother ought. If we 
save him we’ve got to get him interested in physical exer- 
cise and put some manhood into him. You criticise him 
all the time. Try loving him a little.” 

Ah Paul ! How much wiser you speak than you 
dream. Already it is beginning to be true that the love 
of Esther is working a great transformation in your own 
life. When the divine love is added to the human what 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


miracles you may be able to create. 

At first Walter was inclined to resent Paul’s criticism. 
But it was so true that finally he acknowledged manfully 
that he had always been too hard on the kid and prom- 
ised to try another tack with him. Paul felt as if he 
had gained a great point, and he wanted Walter’s counsel 
about the locked room. Walter proposed that they both 
go up and try the door again. 

So they went upstairs and to Paul’s surprise the door 
was wide open. Walter walked across the room and 
beckoned to Paul. 

“The boys have gone out here,” he pointed to the roof 
of a porch which began close under one of the windows 
at a corner, and pointed again at a rope tied around a 
post which projected above the eaves. 

“They must have gone out after you knocked. When 
you were down stairs they opened the door and then slid 
down the rope outside.” 

“What should they do all that for?” Paul asked in 
astonishment. 

Walter shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. A 
boy’s trick. Louis is full of them. It’s going to be a 
strain on me to treat him decent.” 

They went down stairs again and had just reached the 
hall when there was the sound of a key in the night latch 
and the next moment Louis entered. 

At sight of Paul he started angrily to go past him up 
stairs. 

Paul instantly laid his hand kindly on the boy’s 
shoulder. 

“Louis, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided to go on 
with the tutoring. We’ll make a fresh start.” 


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Louis looked unusually disturbed. He muttered some 
unintelligible reply and Walter took occasion to say, “Tell 
you what, Louis, we’ll all help. I will for one. Any time 
you get stuck on your Latin or Greek come to me.” 

At that Louis suddenly collapsed. It was the first time 
in weeks that his big brother had spoken encouragingly 
to him. Why are big brothers, and big sisters too, for that 
matter, so hard and even cruel often towards the younger 
brother or sister? Sometimes it seems as if brothers and 
sisters in the same family hate one another and say more 
spiteful things to each other than the veriest strangers or 
near acquaintances. 

Louis, who was a child of impulse, showed his break- 
ing down at Walter’s kind remarks in a most astonishing 
manner. There was an open fire burning in the big hall 
grate. He went over in front of this fire and, putting 
his hand in his pocket, pulled out three large packages 
of cigarettes and flung them onto the coals. He was 
half sobbing and half laughing. 

“I went out and loaded up after Mr. Douglas left. I 
was planning to smoke myself blue. Then I was going 
to clear out. George and I had our plans all made to 
cut away tomorrow night. But I’ll quit the cigarettes 
all right, Mr. Douglas, honor I will. And I’ll study.” 
He sat down and cried good and hard. He was nervous 
and hysterical. Walter looked embarrassed and seemed 
unable to say anything. Paul went up and put his hand 
on Louis’ shoulder. 

“Don’t worry. We won’t ever mention what’s past. 
Just go up and get a good sleep. I’ll give you a regular 
course of gym training and we’ll plan to run out to the 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


pines on Saturday if the weather is good.” Louis sniffed 
and choked and finally rose and went up stairs. 

Walter said after he was gone, “Well, he seems pretty 
well broke up. I had no idea he was such a baby. 

“Be easy on him, Walter,” said Paul, as he went away. 
“He’s on the edge of a nervous break. He needs careful 
handling.” 

“I’ll do what I can,” Walter promised gravely, realiz- 
ing for the first time in his life the fact that he had any 
real responsibility for the lad whom he had always crit- 
icised and ridiculed and tormented. 

When Paul woke the next morning life looked brighter 
to him than at any time since his mother’s death. The 
knowledge that Esther knew something of his feelings 
toward her, and that she had not seemed indifferent to 
them, gave new meaning to his day’s work. The outcome 
of the tutoring was the promise of Louis to begin anew 
and that was encouraging. He met the two boys at the 
next time for a lesson with good spirit, and at the close 
of the hour gave them an exhibition of club swinging 
that added to their growing hero worship. This was at 
George’s room. The next lesson was at the Darcys. On 
his way to the house that night Paul remembered his 
promise to Bayliss that he would speak to Esther about 
his silence the night of the concert. Seeing that Bayliss 
was apparently not in favor for the time being at least, 
Paul felt that he could afford to be magnanimous, but he 
did not realize how difficult the matter was until he came 
out of Louis’ room at the close of the lesson and saw 
Esther reading at the upstairs hall table. 

She rose and said good evening to Paul, the warm, red 
flush spreading over brow and cheeks. 


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“How is the tutoring now?” she said, rapidly regaining 
her composure as Paul as rapidly began to lose his. 

“O, it went all right. The boys have turned over sev- 
eral new leaves.” 

“It's so good of you,” Esther murmured in a low voice. 

“O, I don’t know. I enjoy the work. May I venture 

to to say a word to you, Miss Darcy ?” Esther drew 

back from the table startled at Paul’s solemnity. Then 
she laughed. The laugh shocked Paul back into self 
possession and it also annoyed him a trifle. 

“Certainly. Is it very serious ?” 

“No, I don’t know that it is. It’s about Mr. Bayliss. 
Is he serious?” 

“He might be,” Esther replied demurely. But her eyes 
flashed a little warning which Paul did not heed if indeed 
he saw it. 

“I want to set Bayliss right on one matter, Miss Darcy. 
He never uttered a word the other night after the concert. 
He kept still.” 

“About what?” 

“Why, about your about your ” 

Paul did not think it would be so hard. Why did not 
Esther help him out? She stood there smiling so pro- 
vokingly. 

“Well?” she said. 

“Mr. Bayliss did not talk about your affairs,” was all 
Paul could say. 

“What affairs?” 

“O dear, what queer creatures girls are!” Paul des- 
perately thought. But the stubborn streak was getting 
uppermost in him. 

“I don’t know if you don’t.” 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


At that Esther blushed. 

“Nothing more need be said then, need there ?” 

Paul stared. Then he laughed, and Esther, after a dig- 
nified silence, joined him. 

“Nothing more need be said then, need it?” 

“By you or me?” 

“By either of us. Well, I must be going. Good night. 
Miss Darcy.” 

“Good night,” Esther said, and did not ask him to 
remain longer. He felt disappointed as he went down 
stairs. However, at the turn of the stairs where the 
broad landing was he heard a movement in the hall above. 
Esther was leaning over the railing looking down at him. 

“We talked so much of nothing just now that I’d like 
to say something. I want you to know I do not believe 
you struck Mr. Bayliss when he was not looking.” 

Paul started to thank her but she was gone. He went 
out with a lighter heart and more in love than ever with 
the somewhat mocking face that for a moment had looked 
down at him from the upper hallway. 

The next lesson in tutoring took him to Randall’s and 
as he was going up to the room Mr. Randall came out 
of his little office which was near the hallway. 

“Come in here a minute will you, Douglas?” he said. 

Paul went in and Randall shut the door. 

“Pve a proposition to make to you,” Randall said, in 
his usual pompous style. “Early this spring I’m planning 
a trip to the continent, to Europe. Mrs. Randall is very 
anxious that George should go. She thinks that the boy 
is studying too hard.” 

Paul smiled at the thought of George studying too 
hard, but did not say anything. 


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“Now, I can’t bother with the boy very well. My busi- 
ness interests will take me to Paris and Berlin and St. 
Petersburg and Vienna on flying trips. I want you to go 
along and take charge of the boy. You can spend all the 
time in England if you like, while I’m chasing around. 
Of course I’ll foot all the bills and do it handsome. What 
do you say?” 

Paul was astonished and excited over the affair. He 
had always dreamed of going abroad, but had not thought 
it possible so soon, and new visions of power and oppor- 
tunity rose in his mind as he faced Mr. Randall that night 
in the little office and realized that a new chapter had been 
opened in bis life. 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Randall waited for Paul to answer his question. 

“I don’t know that I’m old enough to take charge of 
the boy,” he said with characteristic modesty. 

“Old enough! You’re as old as some married men. 
How old are you?” 

“Twenty-two.” 

“Well, that’s old enough. George likes you and if he 
doesn’t behave I give you leave to lick him good and hard. 
Mrs. Randall is as anxious as I am for you to take charge 
of the boy.” Paul was thinking of several things. The 
News and his position there, Esther, and several other 
matters had to be considered. 

“I’ll talk with Mr. Darcy about it;” he finally said. 

“All right. Make up your mind as soon as you can. I 
may have to go earlier than I said. If you decide to go, 
of course I shall expect you to keep on with the tutoring. 
It’ll not all be a picnic for you or George either.” 

Next morning Paul told Mr. Darcy of Randall’s offer. 

Darcy was surprised at first, and his old jealousy of 
Paul began to revive. Since the incident of the story, and 
especially since the death of Paul’s mother the city editor 
of the Milton Daily News had softened in his manner 
towards the son of his old friend. The conduct of Louis 
also had humiliated him to a large degree, and Paul’s 
generous treatment of the boy in spite of the personal 
affronts he had received compelled Darcy’s respect and 


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even admiration. He was beginning also to have a per- 
sonal liking for Paul. He was not so indifferent to af- 
fairs in his own home as to fail to see that Paul had more 
than an ordinary friendly feeling for Esther. Paul had 
begun to make himself very useful in the office, and 
Darcy felt at first as if he could not spare him. 

“How long will you have to be gone?” he said shortly. 

“All summer, if Mr. Randall's business keeps him on 
the continent as long as he plans.” 

Darcy muttered something about the luck some people 
were always having. 

“Now, Pve always wanted to go abroad but this eternal 
grind here keeps me nailed down to the office. All you 
have to do is to pack a bag and have all expenses paid.” 

“I didn’t ask for the trip,” said Paul, with some irrita- 
tion, and a return of his dislike for Darcy. “I don’t 
anticipate it will all be a vacation or play, with George on 
my hands and regular tutoring going on every day.” 

Darcy looked a little ashamed of his feeling and told 
Paul that he would see him about the matter some time 
later in the day. 

Paul was absent from the office on special work and did 
not get back again until after the paper had gone to press. 
When the rush was over Darcy said, as he was getting 
ready to go out home. 

“Randall has been in to see me and make another prop- 
osition. He offers to pay all expenses for Louis if you 
will take both the boys. He thinks they will be good com- 
pany for each other and not much more trouble for you. 
What do you think?” 

“Do you want Louis to go ?” 

“Why, yes, I believe the boy would be helped by it. He 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


needs something I don’t seem able to give him. He 
thinks everything of you and on the whole I feel like ac- 
cepting Randall’s offer. He put it as a personal favor 
to him, seeing George and Louis have been together so 
much. Thinks George would be more contented if he 
had Louis with him.” 

“I think I could manage both boys all right,” said Paul, 
the excitement of the opportunity rising in him the more 
he thought of it. He had been over it all the day while 
at his work and had definitely decided to say yes to Mr. 
Randall. 

“Come out to supper and talk it over with Mrs. Darcy,” 
said the city editor, and Paul accepted willingly, remem- 
bering the limited time now at his disposal for seeing 
Esther. 

But to his great disgust when he entered the parlor the 
first person he saw was Bayliss. The fine arts student 
came up to him with a mixture of friendliness and em- 
barrassment. 

“Glad to see you, Mr. Douglas. And I owe you an 
apology. I was dazed the other night and made a mistake 
about your hitting me you know. Hope you don’t feel 
sore over it. I didn’t know what I was saying.” 

Paul did not remember afterwards what he said in 
reply. He was saying to himself that Bayliss was a 
stupid liar and that Esther had probably insisted on the 
apology before she would renew her acquaintance with 
him. The fact that she was willing to have Bayliss come 
back into the house annoyed Paul and did not add to his 
happiness that evening. As a result he was formally 
polite to Esther during the meal and immediately after it 
was over adjourned to the library to talk over with Mrs. 


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Darcy the proposed trip with Louis. Bayliss seemed 
shut out of this conference, so Esther, who was hurt by 
Paul’s coldness, soon asked him into the music room and 
Paul added gall to bitterness as the music floated out into 
the library. 

Mrs. Darcy was very much pleased that Louis was 
going. She expressed her pleasure when Paul rose to go, 
by saying, 

‘Til trust Louis to you as if you were my son. You 
will be a good big brother to him, won’t you?” 

The words comforted Paul a little as he went away. 
He managed to leave without seeing Esther, and in the 
time that intervened before he and Mr. Randall and the 
two boys sailed for Southampton he saw Esther only 
twice. The last time was at the station where the Darcys 
and the Randalls had come down to see the travelers off. 

Of all miserable places to say good-bye in, railway 
stations are the worst. People are unusually stupid in 
their remarks at railway stations. They cannot think 
of much to say except “Don’t forget to write, will you?” 
After they have said this a dozen times it adds to the 
general solemnity and sadness of the farewells. 

Paul managed to have a few words with Esther when 
the rest were not within hearing. He felt very formal 
and distant and Esther seemed to echo his feelings. 

“I hope the boys won’t give you any great trouble,” she 
said. She had already said it twice. 

“I don’t think they will.” 

“They can’t very well run away from home,” Esther 
said, trying to smile. 

“Not very well,” Paul said, and there was an awkward 
pause. 


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PAUL DOUGLAS : 


The depot master put his head into the door of the 
waiting room and called out “Eastern express.” 

“You will write often to mother about Louis,” Esther 
said nervously. 

“Yes. Wouldn’t you like to hear about your brother 
once in a while?” 

“Certainly,” Esther laughed. “And tell me all about 
London.” 

“That will take a long letter.” 

“Will it?” Esther colored and Paul ventured to add, 
as he picked up his valise, “I remember a few verses by 
John Vance Cheney, ‘Absence makes the heart grow 
fonder, fonder of the other fellow’ ; do you think it will 
in your case?” 

Just what Esther said Paul is not quite certain, the 
train came thundering up with such a noise at that mo- 
ment. But Paul somehow felt encouraged by her look as 
the train moved out, and he and the boys waved handker- 
chiefs from the rear platform. 

When the train was out of sight of Milton station, 
Louis turned to Paul with a queer look. 

“Say, I’ve got one of Esther’s handkerchiefs by mis- 
take. Never noticed it till I pulled it out just now. 
’Tisn’t big enough to use. Do you want to send it back?” 

“I’ll take it,” Paul said gravely, but made no promise 
to send it back. In fact, he never even mentioned the 
handkerchief to Esther when he wrote her from London, 

London! Most fascinating city in Europe. Mr. Ran- 
dall left Paul and the boys there for an indefinite stay 
while he went over on the continent. 

He had already secured two comfortable rooms in Tor- 


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rington Square for Paul and the boys and told Paul to 
stay in London as long as he liked. 

So Paul, with an enthusiasm which even carried the 
boys on its crest with him, mapped out the program of 
their stay. 

After breakfast the first hour was given up to the 
tutoring. At first the boys felt like rebelling. The great 
city lay around them. They could hear the roar of it 
like the roar of some great beast. Southampton Row 
was only three blocks off and Tottenham Court Road 
about the same distance the other way. The long, narrow 
strip of green in the middle of the court on which their 
rooms faced was the only hint of anything like nature as 
they knew it at home. And they were like young colts 
eager to get out and race through the unexplored stretches 
of this great brick and mortar wilderness. 

But Paul was firm and insisted that the work must be 
done first or the play would not be enjoyed. So as the 
days went by the boys gradually settled down to the in- 
evitable and did the best work of their young lives so far. 
The big city awed them. They felt the spell of its im- 
mensity and Paul had no difficulty in keeping them in the 
way of obedience. 

After the lessons were over the rest of the day was 
variously spent. Paul consulted his Baedecker and map- 
ped out a diversified route each day. The British Museum 
was close by and one of the first places they went into 
was that huge repository of all the curiosities and an- 
tiquities of all the centuries and races. But nearly every 
morning began with the bus ride on top of the swaying, 
leisurely-going Horse vehicles. Sometimes the route took 
them through the city past St. Paul’s, out through the 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


east end Poplar district, where the Jews’ quarter gave 
them fascinating views of old customs. Sometimes they 
crossed London or Westminster bridge and rolled through 
the great congested neighborhood around Christ Church 
or Stepney. Or the bus would take them to Westbourne 
Park, out through Piccadilly, past Hyde Park and out to 
the stretch of St. John’s Wood. Or they would go down 
Tottenham Court Road, past St. Martin in the Fields 
Church, by the great Nelson monument in Trafalgar 
Square, on through the wide and noble thoroughfare of 
Whitehall past the old Palace of the Stuarts out of the 
window of which Charles First stepped to be beheaded, 
past the horse guards on the right where the two guards 
sat in all the glory of helmet and breastplate on their 
statuesque horses under their respective archways, on 
past the government buildings in Downing street, on to 
Westminster Abbey and Parliament Buildings where 
Cromwell’s stern figure stands with its back to Parlia- 
ment and its face towards the Abbey, the look of the 
great Protector fixed in meditation on the big Bible in 
his hand. 

“And to think,” said Paul to the boys, whom he was 
coaching up hard in English History, “to think that the 
English people once tore Cromwell’s body out of the 
grave and dragged it through the streets and hung it up 
in chains. And that wild night of September third when 
Cromwell’s spirit went out at the close of Great Britain’s 
most democratic history, the greatest Englishman of all 
the English certainly did not foresee the time when he 
would finally come to be understood for what he really 
was. But time writes history true at last and men’s 
records have to be verified by the great Historian.” 


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After the bus rides had given them the outside view of 
the incomparable multitudes and the unrivaled movement 
of London, Paul took the boys into the ten o’clock serv- 
ice at St. Paul’s and Westminster. They spent two after- 
noons at the national art museum, though Louis and 
George were a little bored by the very pictures which 
Paul wanted to study at leisure. He denied himself 
enough to spend two other days at the Zoological Gar- 
dens, and one evening at Madam Tausaud’s Wax Works 
which, especially the chamber of Horrors, delighted the 
boys. There were several intensely interesting trips on 
the Thames up to Chelsea and down to Greenwich and 
the Tower. They never tired of the constantly changing 
panorama on the river, or of the ceaseless tide of human- 
ity that flowed back and forth through the Strand, up 
Ludgate Hill, around the Bank, back through high Hol- 
born, and Oxford street, where the American flag was so 
much in evidence and past the Circus and Hyde Park 
corner and out to Hampstead Heath which they saw on 
Bank Holiday and never forgot. And always, day and 
night, at all hours with the one exception of the short 
period between two and three o’clock in the morning, it 
was not the historic buildings and associations that im- 
pressed Paul, but the people ! O, the people ! It thrilled 
him one evening when a famous English preacher was 
holding service in George Whitfield’s Tabernacle on Tot- 
tenham Court Road, to hear 3,000 voices sing “When 
Wilt Thou Save the People, O God of Mercy, When?” 
Paul always said that the one greatest impression he 
would always carry of London was the impression of 
people. There was a mingling of diversified feeling in 
him during this period of young manhood. It was grad- 


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ually dawning on him, the majesty and the mystery and 
the sorrow and the greatness and the awe of human life. 

One night as the three were out walking through Cheap- 
side, with no definite program except to see London 
streets at night, Paul was attracted by a banner over the 
street announcing a Salvation Army meeting. In big, 
red letters General Booth was announced to speak. 

It was early, not seven o’clock, but crowds were stream- 
ing into the entrance of the big Headquarters Hall. 

“Shall we go in?” Paul said, and the boys agreed. 
They went in and up into the gallery, where they had a 
clear view of the platform and of the hall. 

There was enough enthusiasm to float a man of war. 
The band played its best and its loudest. When the 
General came out everybody stood up and cheered the 
white bearded figure. He stood at ease and when he 
could be heard, launched at once into one of the most 
thrilling talks Paul had ever heard. He had been talking 
for fifteen minutes and the outbreak of applause which 
had greeted his first words had ceased and deep silence 
had fallen on the tremendous crowd as the General pathet- 
ically described the value of a child he had that day seen 
dead drunk in the streets, when a man rose from the front 
row of seats and began singing a vulgar drunken song. 

The General was not in the least disturbed. No one 
seemed disturbed. But in a flash the tall figure had 
jumped down from the platform in front of the drunken 
singer. Paul watched everything with tremendous inter- 
est when he saw the General’s arm go around the man’s 
neck. What he said to him could not be heard up in the 
gallery, but the next moment every one could see the 
General and the man moving along in front of the plat- 


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form together. The man was still making spasmodic 
efforts to sing his song and he seemed unmindful of the 
surroundings. When the two figures reached the center 
of the platform Paul could see clearly the whole picture 
and it made an indelible impression on his soul. 

The General seemed to press the drunken man down 
upon his knees and the two kneeled there at the front 
of the platform together before the hall full of silent 
people. The man was a type of hundreds Paul had 
already seen in the east end, a trampled down, sodden, 
dirty, ragged, filthy brute, a lump of evil smelling flesh 
that the average man or woman, even the Christian of 
civilization would regard with almost as much disgust 
as he would regard some foul rag he was dropping into 
the garbage can. But on the old General’s face there was 
a look of glory. Paul had been reading that morning 
of the finding of the famous Culinan diamond in South 
Africa. This diamond was the largest ever discovered in 
the history of diamond seeking. It weighed over two 
pounds and its value was estimated at over three million 
dollars. The Boer government had voted to purchase the 
gem and give it to the King. There was a photograph 
of the man who had found the diamond standing on the 
heap of rubbish near the spot where the stone had been 
discovered. There was a look of triumph on the man’s 
face that seemed perfectly natural and proper, consider- 
ing the value of what he held up in his hand. And tonight 
as Paul gazed at the two kneeling figures down there on 
the platform, and the General’s face was lifted in a heart- 
breaking prayer for the salvation of this besotted drunken 
wretch of a human being, it seemed to Paul as if this 
man with his arm around the neck of the other felt as 


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if he had just found a precious gem and was going to 
give it to his great King, Jesus Christ. Surely he had 
leaped down from the platform and seized on that re- 
pulsive lump of depravity with all the joy and enthusiasm 
most men would exhibit if they should suddenly light on 
a three million dollar diamond. And as the prayer went 
on, interrupted now by cries all over the house, of “Save 
him! O Lord Jesus !” “Glory to God !” “Bathe him in 
the blood!” “Wash him clean as snow !” “Cleanse him 
with fire!” Paul was almost stupefied with the thought 
of these people’s definition of values. There was some- 
thing then worth more than banks and cathedrals and 
aristocratic titles and jeweled crowns and railroads and 
ocean liners and money. And there were men living who 
had learned to see that value in the unattractive, re- 
pulsive, hideous external shapes such as this drunken 
“bum” showed to the physical eye. Out of vision, hidden 
away except to the spiritual sight was this creature’s 
soul, worth more than all London with all its outward 
piled up wealth. And General Booth believed all that and 
was acting on it, and he was going to pray and love this 
human wreck into Paradise where, in the ages to come, 
he would shine alongside the dying robber with a glory 
that would outshine the splendor of earthly kings and 
emperors. 

For the first time in his life Paul caught a vision of 
the meaning of Calvary. John 3:16 seemed written in 
letters of fire and blood on the sky over London. The 
General finished his prayer and still kneeled by the man. 
Women were sobbing, men were praying all over the 
hall. The strain was relieved by one of those sweet 
untrained Salvation Army voices, a woman’s voice which 


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rose clear and distinct — “There is a fountain filled with 
blood, drawn from Emmanuel’s veins, And sinners 
plunged beneath that flood, lose all their guilty stains.” 
The lass was kneeling at the end of the platform, her 
face framed by the army bonnet lifted up like a beseech- 
ing saint, and as the verse ended, the entire audience 
joined involuntarily in the chorus, “Lose all their guilty 
stains, Lose all their guilty stains, And sinners plunged 
beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains.” 

Paul sang with the rest. The old hymn and tune were 
familiar. He had often heard his mother sing it at fam- 
ily worship at home. Her dear face shone out in memory, 
not as he had seen it last, cold and still in the coffin, but 
as he had seen it many other times as she sat by his 
father, her hands clasped in her lap, the light of the other 
world shining in her eyes, her love yearning over her 
children that they might be saved. Paul discovered he 
was sobbing as he sang. He turned to the boys. George 
was sniffling audibly. Louis, who was emotional some- 
times to the verge of hysterics, was crying into his hand- 
kerchief. When the song was finished the tension of 
feeling was relieved by a number of brief prayers uttered 
by members of the Army kneeling around the man on 
the platform. He had finally sunk down into a shapeless, 
ragged mound and he lay there undisturbed during the 
rest of the meeting. The General went on with his ad- 
dress, at the close of which, Paul noted, a number of 
Salvation Army workers lifted up the man and carried 
him into one of the rescue rooms. It was not difficult 
to imagine his after history. He would be one more to 
add to the number of those who have washed their robes 
and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. It 


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would be one more miracle of regeneration like the others 
visible on the platform. For of the two hundred men 
and women seated there that night, three-fourths of them 
had once been like this man, drunkards, bums, harlots, 
prodigals, hopeless cases, lost. Sitting there now clothed 
and in their right minds they were unimpeachable wit- 
nesses to the truth of the centuries, that Jesus Christ is 
able to save to the uttermost any man or woman who 
believes in Him. 

When the meeting was over Paul and the boys went 
slowly out and back to the rooms in Torrington Square. 
The meeting had affected all of them, but Paul was 
really shaken by the event of the evening. He lay awake 
nearly all night, going over the scene of the General and 
the drunkard as they kneeled on the platform together. 
Was there a reality then in the gospel of Jesus Christ? 
Was it something more than sentiment and fine phrases. 
Was his mother right when she said so often that a Chris- 
tian was different from other persons, that being saved 
was something more than escaping punishment, that it 
was a positive feeling and not a negative quantity? One 
or two sentences in General Booth’s prayer for the drunk- 
ard recurred to Paul as he lay awake that night. 

“Gracious Friend,” the General had said, talking with 
the reverent familiarity the Salvation Army has always 
shown towards the Almighty. “Once a mother loved this 
soul when it began life in the baby that lay on her breast. 
That which began with innocence and cleanliness can you 
not make pure again? You make possible the innocent 
beginning of life. Can you not make possible a restora- 
tion of that which has for a few years only been lost? 
Or if his mother did not care for him and he was born 


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into cruelty and neglect how much more, God, is the need 
of making it good to him now as recompense for that of 
which his soul has been robbed? Save him, Lord. He 
is yours. Save your own!” 

Somehow Paul felt as if that prayer was going to be 
answered. And how about his own mother’s prayers? 
Were they ever to be answered? What was he planning 
for himself? He rapidly outlined his earthly ambitions. 
First, he wanted to have Esther Darcy for his wife. He 
knew he loved her truly and he believed she was not 
indifferent to him. Then if that great joy should be his, 
he wanted to succeed with his literary work. He dreamed 
of fame as a writer. He would be proud to be known as 
a successful story writer. He would have a beautiful 
home. He would travel. He would be known as an 
author. He would have a life full of happiness and 
gratified ambition. And was that all? How about the 
great world of which he was a part? What was his 
place there? What did he owe to the lost side of it? 
Was it Christian simply to live in the midst of beautiful 
things, to enjoy the applause of the world, to suck its 
sweets and shun its bitterness, and live softly and know 
no crosses, to forget that there was any sorrow, to shut 
his heart to the cries of injustice, to avoid the rough and 
disagreeable hurly burly of the world’s clamorous battle 
for right? Paul Douglas knew there was a crisis for 
him, that he had walked into the valley of decision with 
the multitudes, and everything depended on the answers 
he gave to these questions. 

The next night he left the boys in the rooms and went 
out by himself for a stroll. Louis and George had been 
going so much that they were not unwilling to stay in. 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


Paul felt the spirit of unrest upon him. He felt as if 
he must get out and away from the boys. He got on top 
of a bus at Coptic street and went out through Mile End. 
He left the bus at Liverpool street station and strolled 
along without any program. The wide thoroughfare at 
that point was one swaying, sweltering mass of humanity. 
Groups of girls went by reeling from side to side of the 
foot path, singing drunken songs. At the corner near 
“Old Bilks” public house a young man stood holding 
a lad about eight years old by the hand. Paul noticed the 
two figures because the face likeness was so startling. 
The lad, an under-sized chalk-faced figure, was the exact 
pattern of his father. The two were looking into the 
window of “Old Bill’s” place, staring eagerly at the 
great mound of gin, whiskey, brandy and rum bottles 
piled up there. The boy seemed urging his father to do 
something. Finally Paul saw him drag at his father’s 
hand and pull him towards the door. Streams of men 
and women were constantly passing in and out. The 
boy and his father went in and Paul followed. 

Once inside Paul was tempted to go out again as soon 
as he was conscious of the terrible surroundings. The 
boy and his father crowded up to the bar and Paul heard 
the man call for a glass of gin. He had hardly raised it 
to his lips before the boy pulled his sleeve and eagerly 
asked for a drink. The father, who had spilled some of 
the gin when his sleeve was pulled* drank half of the 
remainder and then handed the glass to the boy. To his 
dying day Paul Douglas will never forget the animal 
clutch of the boy’s grimy hand on that wet glass of gin, 
nor the eagerness with which he drained it, lifting his 


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tallow, dirty face up as he poured the fiery poison down 
his throat. 

But this was only one scene in this human inferno. 
Back of the bar stood eight young women, bar maids, 
their sleeves rolled up to the elbows, handing out the 
different drinks as fast as they could work the beer 
pumps or open the spirit bottles, from the cork pullers on 
the edge of the inside bar. These girls were not old and 
ugly. They were young and attractive looking, and there 
lay the horror of it all. Snatches of vile conversation 
floated like some foul deadly mist over the bar. The 
room was stifling with its alcoholic odor. A woman 
standing next to the man who had just put the empty 
glass back on the bar, was drinking a glass of whiskey. 
She was holding on her left arm a child not over ten 
months old. The child was staring straight up at the 
mother, watching her as she drank. The woman sud- 
denly turned her head, looked down at the child, and then 
with a deliberate motion which horrified Paul more than 
anything excited could have done, she brought the glass 
to the child’s lips and let it drink. Paul felt as if some 
one had suddenly clutched him by the throat. He was 
strangled and felt that if he stayed longer he would choke 
to death. As he started to go out, the woman set the 
child down. It staggered on its legs and then fell over 
face downward on the sawdust soaked with beer and 
drippings from the glasses. Men and women laughed 
when the child made several ineffectual efforts to get up. 
Finally the mother caught hold of one hand, dragged 
the child over the floor to a corner, sat down on a 
bench by the wall, took out a dirty handkerchief and, 
tearing off a strip of it, looked around with a drunken 


1G0 


PA UL DOUGLAS: 


smile. She nudged a woman who had just begun to 
drink some brandy, holding up the strip torn from the 
handkerchief. The woman with the brandy seemed to 
understand. She laughed and spilled about a spoonful 
of liquor on the rag. The mother wrapped this rag 
around the child’s thumb, put the thumb into the child's 
mouth and set it down in a corner on the floor. The child 
began to quit its noisy cry and was soon stupid with 
brandy. The mother went up to the bar again, fumbled 
in her dress, pulled out a torn purse, opened and emptied 
it. Paul could see in her hand a sixpence and two pen- 
nies. She put the sixpence down on the wet bar and 
asked for whiskey. When it was poured out she spilled 
a third of it from the glass as she seized it. 

Paul stumbled over something as he crowded through 
the room to get out doors. Looking down he saw a baby. 
He put his hand down and caught it up and carried it 
over to the corner where the other child was. No one 
noticed him or made any objection. The baby was stupid, 
too stupid to cry. As he put it down on the floor it fell 
over against the child with the brandy rag around its 
thumb. And then Paul, desperately sick at heart, some- 
thing again clutching at his heart as if to tear the life 
out of him, got to the door as soon as he could and out 
upon the sidewalk. 

Once out there, even the close, heavy, evening sultri- 
ness was a welcome relief after the awful mingling of 
odors in the room he had struggled out of. He climbed 
on top of the first bus that came along. It was going 
west back into the city. Paul did not care where he went, 
anywhere to lose sight and memory of Whitechapel. It 
was not yet eight o’clock and the long English twilight 


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had begun. The bus rolled leisurely along through 
Leadenhall street and Cornhill, past the Mansion house, 
through Poultney and Cheapside, past the corner of 
Paternoster Row and then a sharp turn to the left into 
the circle of St. Paul’s Church yard. Just as the bus 
had swung around the south side of the cathedral and 
had started into Ludgate Hill a policeman held up his 
hand. Instantly the bus stopped. All the way along 
since entering Cheapside, Paul had noticed increased flow 
of the human tide moving westward. He had not asked 
any questions about it for great crowds were the normal 
and regular street condition of London streets. And 
when the bus came to a stop at that silent uplift of the 
officer’s hand, Paul saw at once that some extraordinary 
event was going on, and that an unusually interested and 
excited crowd of people had gathered in front of the 
Cathedral. 

He was sitting on the front seat of the bus near the 
driver and asked him what was going on. 

“Blest if I know.” The driver of a hansom was sitting 
opposite the driver of the bus. He flicked the hansom 
cab driver with his whip and said, “Johnny, w’ats hup?” 

The hansom driver turned to the bus driver with a 
look of contempt. 

“Go to college,” he said. “Your eddication needs 
mendin’.” 

“Aw,” retorted the bus driver, unabashed. “I know 
wat ails you, I does. The wind’s got into that ’ole in 
your ’ead, an’ its makin’ your tongue go round.” 

A man sitting behind Paul leaned forward and spoke 
to him. 

“I see you are an American. You will be interested in 


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PAUL D0UGLA8 : 


this event. We’re unusually lucky to be able to see it* 
The King is going to confer Knighthood on Foley. 
That’s Foley’s carriage down there in front of Queen 
Anne’s statue.” 

“Thank you,” said Paul, turning around and facing a 
pleasant looking, elderly man who wore a tall hat and 
carried the inevitable umbrella. “Who is Foley ?” 

For an answer the Englishman pointed his umbrella 
towards a gigantic electric sign that flamed out far down 
Ludgate Hall, so large that Paul could easily read 
it “Foley’s Whiskey.” 

He stared at it as he did not fully comprehend its 
meaning. 

“You don’t mean to say the King is going ” he 

started to question the gentleman when a murmur swept 
over the people. 

“Hats off! The King!” 

Every hat came off, and every voice ceased. Paul 
leaned forward eagerly and what he saw became one of 
the strong pictures of his life long memory. 

The soft lights in front of the great Cathedral were 
reinforced by some torches held up by a double row of 
link boys. The whole tableau was bright as day. Out 
of the great doorway came first a gigantic officer carrying 
a sword held upright. The face of the officer shone in 
the torchlight which gleamed on his burnished breast- 
plate and the helmet which he bore in his left hand. Then 
a dozen feet behind him came the King, alone. Every 
eye of the thousands, from every window, from the top 
of every bus, and hansom and pillar about the Cathedral 
was fastened on that one figure of the King. Paul had 
never before seen a King. He was American through 


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and through and had contempt for titles and thrones, 
but he had to acknowledge that this man bore himself 
every inch a King. He was short and stout and bald, and 
he wore the uniform of a Colonel of the Waterloo Guards. 
As he slowly and with natural dignity descended the 
steps of the Cathedral other dignitaries followed him, 
emerging from the Cathedral door, bishops of the Church 
of England, officers of the army, members of the royal 
family, members of the House of Lords and high titled 
persons, making a glittering procession. But they were 
only like small jewels in the setting of a royal crown, 
for the King was the center of attraction. 

Near the foot of the steps a large, fine looking man 
was kneeling, his head bare, a gold chain about his neck. 

The King descended until he was two steps above this 
kneeling figure. 

The officer who had preceded the King stepped back 
and handed the drawn sword to the King. His majesty 
held it up for a second silently where it gleamed in the 
torch light, then laid it on the shoulder of the man kneel- 
ing below him. What he said could not be heard where 
Paul sat, but as soon as the King had handed back the 
sword to the officer, a cheer arose, and gathered volume 
and increased and swept over the thousands who had 
hitherto stood silent. 

The man who had been knighted arose and stood still, 
bare headed, and bowed while the King entered his royal 
carriage, followed by the retinue behind him, groups 
driving off rapidly in the direction of the street down 
Ludgate. The multitude cheered the King as he drove 
away. Then they cheered Sir James Foley as he drove 
away. Then the crowds dispersed and the interrupted 


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PAUL DOUGLAS : 


street traffic gradually and with that wonderful smooth- 
ness characteristic of London traffic resumed its regular 
resistless roll eastward and westward. 

As the bus went down Ludgate and slowly swung 
under the electric sign Paul looked up at it, dazed and 
stupefied as he read, 

“FOLEY’S WHISKEY.” 

Yes, incredible as it seems, his most Christian majesty, 
King of the largest empire in the world, standing on the 
steps of a Christian Cathedral dedicated to the teaching 
and worship of Jesus Christ, in the year of our Lord 
Nineteen hundred seven, had conferred the great honor 
of Knighthood on the greatest enemy of his empire, upon 
the man who, more than any other man in Great Britain, 
had destroyed his thousands of men, women and children 
like those Paul had just seen back in “Old Bill’s 
Place.” 

How could such a monstrous thing be? What possi- 
ble excuse could the King have for knighting this whiskey 
manufacturer? Yet the fact was simply fact, and Paul 
heard no word of dissent or protest. 

As the bus rolled by King Charles’ statue and entered 
Whitehall, the gentleman behind Paul leaned forward 
again and touched his shoulder. 

“Great sight wasn’t it? I don’t suppose you ever saw 
anything like it in America?” 

“No sir,” replied Paul, truthfully, and he said to him- 
self, “Pray God I never may.” 

“Foley is a fine looking man. Very generous. Gave 
$100,000 to the royal infirmary last spring.” 

Ah, Paul understood partly the reason for the knight- 
hood of this whiskey prince. But he did not say anything, 


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and at Westminster bridge he got down and walked 
slowly upon the bridge until he reached the middle of it 
and then he stopped and leaned over the parapet. 

Parliament buildings rose on his right, the Victoria 
tower grandly supreme over the gothic pile, the great 
illuminated clock face in the opposite tower now marking 
the hour of nine. Near the Parliament buildings West- 
minster Abbey, unrivaled historic pile, the heart of Eng- 
land throbbing in every stone with the glory and tragedy 
of her heroes, her poets, her warriors, her saints, her 
sinners. The lights gleamed in the House of Commons. 
A night session was on, a midsummer sitting oyer some 
discussion relative to the Army and Navy Budget. Men 
over there near the historic hall where Charles the First 
stood before the tribunal that passed sentence of death 
on him, were soon going to wrangle and debate over the 
expenditure of pounds, shillings and pence to build more 
battleships and buy more guns with which to do whole- 
sale murder as if Old Bill’s Place reinforced by Sir 
James Foley were not killing off enough human beings 
to satisfy the greed of the devil. 

And yet it was Christian England. Was it? Paul 
turned his head and saw the dome of St. Paul’s, that 
monument to Sir Christopher Wren. Out of the great 
door bishops and clergy who only a few minutes before 
had been engaged in praising God and exalting Jesus, had 
come to take part in a ceremony and approve of earthly 
honor conferred upon an arch enemy of the very King- 
dom of God which the Cathedral had been built to ad- 
vance. And at the bottom of it all lay the old, old wor- 
ship of money. It was because this wicked man had 
money that the King knighted him. He had no other 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


claim in the way of literature or of scientific or humani- 
tarian talents. And yet England, his mother country, 
Paul remembered in that hour of bewilderment, had given 
birth to Christian saints and martyrs like Alexander Duif 
and David Livingstone, Elizabeth Fry and Florence 
Nightingale, and John Howard and George Carey and 
John Knox and to unquestioned patriots like Oliver 
Cromwell, men and women, who, however mistaken and 
imperfect they may have been in some ways, have never- 
theless been willing to lay down their lives for God in 
the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. And over there in 
the House of Commons that night although Paul did not 
know it, were scores of good Christian members of Par- 
liament to whom the King’s action that day was a griev- 
ous thing that made them sick at heart, and although 
Paul again did not know it, at that time, those true Chris- 
tian patriots in the English Parliament were quietly but 
persistently at work to put an end to the horror which 
Paul had seen in Old Bill’s Place and in a short time 
make it absolutely impossible for the successor to the 
English throne to do a thing such as Edward VII had 
done that day. 

But Paul did not know all that and his spirit was sorely 
troubled. Why was his mother so deeply anxious that 
he should be a Christian? Her last earthly words were, 
“O God, make my boy a Christian.” Why, if Christianity 
was a failure? If after two thousand years of it a repre- 
sentative Christian empire with the shouting approval of 
thousands of its subjects had bowed in worship before 
the very thing that Jesus hated, how could it be Christian? 
The inherent, instinctive scorn in Paul of shame and 
falsehood and hypocrisy rose up like a mountain against 


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such a travesty of Christ by a human government. And 
yet was America, his own country, any better ? Did they 
not worship money over there? Was not Mammon the 
one God that more than any other had abject slaves and 
followers in the politics and the market place and the 
commerce and the society and even the church of Amer- 
ica? Why be a Christian if the kingdom of God was a 
failure ? But was it a failure ? How about the two hun- 
dred men and women he had seen on the platform of the 
Salvation Army Hall the night before? Was any power 
which could take that crowd of drunkards and thieves 
and harlots and transform them into loving, joyful, useful 
creatures a failure ? Was anything a failure which could 
take that mound of dirty flesh and rags that lay at the 
General’s feet and make it stand up straight and clean and 
pure and radiant like an Angel of God? 

Paul stood there on the bridge going over the historic 
battle of the centuries in his soul. He fought it out 
fiercely and desperately. And it was midnight before 
the Peasant of Nazareth claimed his own and Paul sur- 
rendered unconditionally as thousands before him have 
done, as thousands after him will do until the Kingdoms 
of this world have become the Kingdoms of our Lord. 

I do not think he could have possibly understood at 
this time the full significance of what had come to him. 
The main point was clear in his mind as he walked back 
to Torrington Square. He would put Jesus on the throne 
of his life. He would exalt the Prince of Peace as his 
Lord and Master. He would do what so far he had 
never done, he would confess to the world his faith and 
he would with all his heart and mind live to bring in 
the Kingdom and establish it on the earth. But all that 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


such a surrender meant he could not grasp. It was not 
necessary for him. But already there was a joyful peace 
in his soul which he had never known. And as he walked 
through Trafalgar Square and up past the crowds that 
were never more thronged than at that time, tears flowed 
down his face as he said, “O mother, mother, why did I 
not make this decision while you were alive and give you 
the joy you prayed for?” As he crossed over Tottenham 
Court Road and entered Great Russell street the traffic 
was not so continuous and noisy, and his heart suddenly 
found peace. It was as if God had spoken to him saying, 
“Do not grieve, your mother is satisfied now. She knew 
her prayer would be answered sometime.” And with the 
assurance of that divine comfort in his heart Paul slept 
that night. 

The days that followed this crisis in Paul’s life were 
days of supreme joy to him. The difference in him was 
almost as marked as if he had been wicked and vile. It 
was so marked that Louis and George could not help 
noticing it. 

“Something’s happened to him,” Louis said. 

“Think he’s in love?” George said with his usual slow 
drawl. 

Contrary to his usual flippant manner and to George’s 
surprise Louis did not laugh nor gibe. He looked puz- 
zled and finally said, 

“Whatever it is, Mr. Douglas is a brick. I owe every- 
thing to him. I wish he would marry Esther and take 
me to board.” 

“Maybe he will,” said George. “Isn’t she willing?” 

“Mr. Douglas needn’t be afraid of any Baylisses,” 
Louis said. “I spiked his gun for him up in the attic.” 


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But Paul was about to test his feeling to Esther by- 
writing and telling her plainly what had come to him and 
how necessary she now was to his new and enlarged 
vision of life. When he had last seen her waving her 
hand on the Milton platform he had been saying, “When 
I return I am going to speak to Esther as I should, and 
ask her to be my wife.” The last thing in the world he 
had thought of doing was to “propose,” as it is called, by 
letter. As he sat down one day to write her for the first 
time it seemed to him that it was the most natural thing 
in the world to tell her first of all persons in the world 
about his religious experience, and then ask her to share 
his new life with him. So in his usual straightforward 
manner he told Esther all about it. He even went back 
to the first evening he had seen her and said he thought 
his feeling dated from that hour. He described the 
growth of his affection as a natural and unhindered emo- 
tion and said that he could not wait until his return to 
Milton before confessing what she must already know, 
at least in part. And then he went on to open his real 
heart to Esther in telling her as well as he could how the 
Christian faith had become personal to him to such a 
degree, he said, that “even my deep and true love for you, 
dear, is not equal to my feeling of passion for my Master. 
And I feel as if your love for me if I am going to be 
blest so highly will make real heaven on earth for both 
of us, for my motives and ambitions have all been changed 
and enlarged since I had this experience and I want your 
life to put with mine for the Master’s sake.” 

Truly Paul was “in love” far beyond George’s thought. 
He was learning to love Christ and no earthly love of man 
for woman or of woman for man is at its height or at its 


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best until the divine becomes a necessary shareholder in 
it all. 

In closing this letter which was necessarily a long one 
Paul boldly asked Esther to give him an answer at once 
if she could. It was the first love letter he had ever 
written and he reminded Esther of the fact that he could 
not return home until late in the fall. “If you cannot 
say yes to me with all your heart, do not write at all. 

But if you can ” he signed himself at this point, 

“Your lover, Paul Douglas,” and went out and put the 
letter into one of the round, red pillars at the end of the 
square. If Esther answered at once it would be over 
twenty days before he could get her reply. Somehow 
he did not feel very anxious. Not because he was vain 
but because Esther’s eyes had been so blue as they looked 
into his that night in the upper hall where he had told 
her part of his feelings for her. 

Ten days went by. Paul counted them over and said, 
“Esther has my letter now.” He pictured her reading it. 

Then, then he pictured her reply. If she wrote the 

same evening and posted it, it would get to New York 
the next day and reach Liverpool inside the week and 
get up to London the next morning. Two days went by. 
Esther’s letter, if she had written it, was now just leaving 
New York harbor in one of the mail steamers. At the 
close of the second day a telegram came to Torrington 
Square from Mr. Randall. 

“Mrs. Randall very ill. Meet me with the boys at 
Southampton. Sail tomorrow for New York. Randall.” 

In the hurry of packing up and in his ready sympathy 
for what might be waiting Mr. Randall and George, Paul 
gave little thought to his own affairs. When he met Mr. 


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Randall at Southampton he at once decided to return 
with him in spite of Randall’s suggestion that he, Paul, 
and Louis did not need to go back. Randall was in great 
distress. The one redeeming thing about this money 
maker was his undoubted love of his wife. Paul saw 
at once that the man needed him during the voyage home. 
They all sailed the next day. Randall was nearly dis- 
tracted. The sixth day, when within three hundred miles 
of New York, a wireless message dropped into the ship 
to the effect that Mrs. Randall was a little better but not 
yet out of danger. Mr. Randall was sick in his berth 
when the message was brought to him by Paul. 

“Thank God,” he said feebly. It was the first time 
Paul had ever heard him utter the word reverently. 

Next day the vessel came slowly up that astonishing 
harbor past the statue of Liberty, past the cliff dwellings, 
past the varied shipping and reached its own slip where 
the little tugs came up and pushed with their noses like 
so many ridiculous porpoises against the huge frame of 
the liner to move her into her place. Randall and Paul 
and the boys were out by the rail eagerly waiting for 
the gangway to be fastened when Louis suddenly ex- 
claimed, “Look ! Look ! There’s father and Esther.” 

Paul turned and saw her. During the voyage one night 
he had heard a fog whistle in answer to their own. He 
had counted up the days and said to himself as he lay 
listening to the steamer going eastward, “There goes my 
letter from Esther.” Now he would have to get his 
answer directly from her. Mr. Darcy had brought her on 
to New York to meet Randall and comfort him for his 
loss. Was that the reason for his being there? But no. 
They were too happy looking. Paul could hear Randall 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


give a great sigh of relief. And then the boys yelled 
together. Darcy and Esther saw them. Darcy took his 
hat off and waved it and shouted to Randall the news 
of his wife’s being out of danger. The vessel swung in 
closer. Paul could see Esther clearly now. Her face 
looked very happy. Paul felt certain his letter had been 
answered. By this time it was at 57 Torrington Square. 

When the party got down into the huge custom house 
and the first greetings were over, Paul found himself 
walking along with Esther over to the section marked with 
the big letter D where he would have to wait for his 
baggage inspection. 

“I got your letter,” Esther said, “and I answered it, I 
answered it at once.” 

“I never got it,” Paul said solemnly. 

“You have it now,” Esther said, smiling at him. “I 
brought myself.” 

They were sitting together on one of the trunks and 
Paul said, as he looked at the letter D over their heads, 
“You won’t have to change your initial, Esther.” 

“No, but I am willing to change my name, Paul,” 
Esther said, and this time Paul had no doubt that the 
eyes that looked into his were decidedly blue, for he 
saw then the heaven that every man sees when his love 
is understood and returned by a true woman and their 
lives are thenceforth one and the same. 

So Paul Douglas began a new chapter in his life. What 
this history is to be remains to be seen. But whatever it 
is it will be the history of the Kingdom of God on the 
earth, it will be the history of Christianity in the trium- 
phal march over the centuries as it travels on, conquering 
and to conquer until it shall be the one great and enduring 
Master of the whole world. 


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CHAPTER IX. 

When Paul found himself back in Milton he realized 
that a new and large chapter in his life had been begun. 

Two events of large meaning made swift and important 
developments in Paul’s character at this time. The first 
event was his hearty and enthusiastic acceptance of the 
Christian life; the second was his engagement to Esther 
Darcy. 

These two experiences at first seemed to have little 
connection. As time went on Paul and Esther both found 
out that the two events could not be separated. In the 
first place Paul’s reception into the Darcy family was 
entirely pleasant except for one disagreeable episode. 
Mrs. Darcy was proud of Esther and had social ambitions 
for her, but secretly she admired Paul’s literary ability 
and when she learned that the Douglas name was directly 
connected with the great Douglas of Baltimore, leader of 
the old southern aristocracy of Maryland, she never 
failed to tell her social acquaintances of Esther’s pros- 
pective fortunes. Walter Darcy was more than pleased. 
He had taken a strong liking to Paul from the first meet- 
ing with him. Louis also accepted the situation and 
frankly told Esther that Paul was a “brick of the first 
water,” a sentence he had picked up in a vaudeville show 
in London, from which amusement resort he had retained 
that and one other so-called witticism. 

But Mr. Darcy was disturbed by the announcement of 


174 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


the engagement and Paul had more than a disagreeable 
quarter of an hour with him. 

The morning after his return to Milton, Paul went into 
the News office and Darcy questioned him briefly about 
his London experience. Paul noted his curt indifferent 
tone but it was not unknown to him and so he was quite 
unprepared for Darcy’s abrupt question at the end of 
the conversation about Paul’s trip. 

“You have taken your own way of breaking into the 
Darcy family, it seems?” Paul was too astonished to 
make answer and Darcy went on. 

“It makes it a little awkward for me not to be con- 
sulted in the matter, don’t you think?” 

“I supposed you knew,” replied Paul, quickly. 

“I suppose I did,” retorted Darcy. “At the same time 
I don’t like the idea of having so much taken for granted.” 

“I did not suppose,” Paul began, and then stopped, feel- 
ing so disturbed that he did not dare trust himself to 
go on. 

“What did you not suppose?” Darcy asked coldly. 

“I did not suppose you would object.” 

“Perhaps I don’t. What I don’t like is the way affairs 
of this sort are managed.” 

Paul faced Mr. Darcy with a frank smile. 

“Mr. Darcy, won’t you make allowances for my awk- 
wardness in managing affairs of this sort ? It is the only 
affair of the sort I ever had and I ” 

Darcy interrupted. 

“I have not made up my mind about Esther. I have 
planned a trip abroad for her. She is too young to think 
of being married.” 

“She is twenty-one,” Paul exclaimed. 


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“And you?” 

“I am twenty-four.” 

“And your prospects?” 

Paul blushed. 

“You pay me as assistant city editor twenty-five dollars 
a week. Last year I earned two hundred and fifty dollars 
for outside writing.” 

“Do you think you can support a wife on that amount?” 

“Esther tells me you and her mother began on less.” 

Darcy could not help smiling. But he frowned immedi- 
ately after. 

“That has nothing to do with your case. Circumstances 
are far different now. It costs nearly twice as much to 

live now as it did forty years ago. And another thing 

I don’t believe in long engagements.” 

“Neither do I,” Paul said quickly. “The shorter the 
better for me.” 

“But it will have to be a long one or none in your case,” 
Darcy retorted. “I had other plans for Esther.” 

Paul could not think of anything to say in reply to this. 
But after a moment he said, with great simplicity, 

“Mr. Darcy, Esther and I love each other. Whether 
you give us your approval or not, this is the fact. May 
I ask what it is you object to in me?” 

“O, I don’t know of anything in particular. I think 
Esther is too young. I don’t object to you personally, 
Paul. But I don’t like the idea of Esther being engaged 
to any one.” 

Somehow Paul felt as he listened that Darcy was de- 
ceiving him and not giving him his real reasons. All this 
added to the painfulness of the interview. 


176 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“Then do I understand, Mr. Darcy, that you don’t give 
your consent to our engagement?” 

“I have not said so.” 

“But naturally I want to know how I stand. I don’t 
want to be in a false position.” 

“I have not said you were. Let the matter drop.” 

“Then you give your consent ?” Paul exclaimed quickly. 

“I don’t either give it or withhold it.” 

“But that is not fair to Esther or to me.” 

“It’s as much as I am prepared to do at present. Let 
the matter rest,” was all Darcy would say. 

Paul was obliged to accept this very unsatisfactory con- 
clusion and it necessarily left his mind in uncertainty and 
made his relations to Mr. Darcy very embarrassing. He 
felt the injustice of such treatment and being of a pe- 
culiarly frank and open-hearted temper himself, he could 
not understand it. 

Nevertheless he was at this very time in his life an 
unusually happy and buoyant young man. Esther’s 
whole-hearted affection was so free from fear and so 
hopeful of the future that it assured Paul and gave him 
a feeling of great contentment. His Christian experience 
was very true and real to him also. The religious side of 
his strong nature was deeply stirred and he had a genuine 
emotion of joy every day. But he was beginning to find 
out that his standard of life was far different from the 
old one. He had prided himself on his morality. Yet he 
had accepted in the old days the regular ways of the 
News office and had never questioned them because they 
seemed to be the established customs of all newspapers. 
With his new rule of life it was inevitable that he should 
come into conflict sooner or later with some of these 


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newspaper habits. But when the crisis came he was in a 
sense unprepared. The conflict between his Christian 
standard and that of the News office was bound to come 
at some time or other. But he had not anticipated the 
particular way in which it would come and if he could 
have chosen he would not have selected the testing that 
brought him face to face with his real convictions. 

About a week after his unsatisfactory talk with Darcy 
Paul was surprised to have the city editor call him into 
the office room and ask him to take a special assignment. 
Paul had gradually worked out of reportorial duties but 
still went out on very difficult write-ups. The moment 
Darcy mentioned the case however, Paul felt that a crisis 
had come to him. 

“I want you to go up and interview the Spragues,” said 
Darcy in his abrupt manner. 

Paul looked at him in silence. 

“The Gazette pretends it has found something. I don’t 
believe it has a single clue. Now you can get an interview 
with Mrs. Sprague or one of the sisters and find out the 
facts. Calder is no use. Might as well send a wooden 
Indian. You can worm the matter out of the family.” 

“I don’t know,” Paul began slowly. 

“I trust you to do it and do it right. Scoop the Gazette 
on it.” 

Darcy turned to his desk as if the matter were settled 
and Paul went back to his desk to think. The “Sprague 
Case” had puzzled the newspapers and the people of 
Milton for several weeks. As Paul knew the facts they 
were as follows. 

Mr. and Mrs. Sprague were elderly people whose fam- 
ily consisted of two grown young men and three young 


178 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


women. Mr. Sprague was one of the local merchants 
of Milton, respected by all who knew him, and a man 
noted for his reserved, quiet habits, a good church mem- 
ber and citizen. Mrs. Sprague was very much like her 
husband, of a retiring quiet manner but kind and honest 
in every day habits. The children partook of the parents' 
characteristics but were a part of the social life of their 
circle of many friends and popular with them. Mr. 
Sprague was generally supposed to be well off, lived in a 
large and well furnished house and gave generously to 
all public causes. 

Suddenly, to the great surprise of the town, the 
Spragues sold their beautiful home and moved into a six- 
room cottage. The older of the two boys quietly married 
a young woman who had been well know in Milton as a 
leader in church and benevolent work and immediately 
after the wedding the young people went away, and news- 
paper enterprise had traced them to a western town where 
young Sprague had gone to work as business manager in 
an electric machine shop. One of the Sprague girls had 
gone into a shorthand school. and another had secured a 
place in a milliner’s establishment. The third remained at 
home and was helping her mother at housework. 

Now all this seems commonplace enough, but gossip 
had started over the actions of this family and for 
several weeks the Gazette and The Daily News had been 
trying to get a story out of it. More than once the 
Gazette had hinted at a scandal. The Spragues were 
absolutely silent. They refused to talk. Their friends 
knew nothing and the papers were absolutely unable to 
find out why the Spragues had sold their house, and why 
the older boy had gone away, but that did not prevent all 


JOURNALIST 


17a 


sorts of stories being circulated and what Darcy had 
referred to was an article in the Gazette the evening 
before claiming to have a clue to the actions of the 
family. 

Paul went over all this rapidly. Then he made his 
decision. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. He fin- 
ished some work on his desk, closed it down and went 
out. The Sprague’s store was two blocks from the News 
office. Paul went down there and asked to see Mr. 
Sprague. When the merchant invited him into his office 
Paul said directly, 

“Mr. Sprague, I am assistant city editor of the News. 
The News wants me to interview you for a story. Are 
you willing to say anything to offset the rumors the 
Gazette has been circulating? If you can give me a story 
I promise on my honor to see that it gets into the News 
straight and use nothing but a statement from you if 
you prefer.” 

Mr. Sprague looked at Paul thoughtfully and at last 
said slowly, 

“Mr. Douglas, I knew your father years ago in West- 
ville and I have known something of you since you came 
to Milton and have confidence in you. If you can come 
up to my house this evening I will talk with you on one 
condition.” 

“What is that?” Paul asked with some excusable curios- 
ity. 

“That not one word of what I say shall ever be used in 
any newspaper or repeated by you to any other person. 

Paul looked at him in astonishment. 

“But what advantage will this be to you ?” 

“You must let me be the judge of that. I will talk only 
on that condition. 


180 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


Paul consented and went away wondering greatly over 
the outcome. 

When he called at the Spragues in the evening he was 
welcomed gravely but kindly by the head of the house. 
There was no one else present during the evening. Paul 
took the seat Mr. Sprague indicated and listened with in- 
creasing interest to his story. 

“Twenty-five years ago,” Mr. Sprague began, “a 
brother of my wife moved into a remote part of Old 
Mexico and gradually accumulated a comfortable fortune 
in mining. He had no son of his own and adopted a boy 
who in time won the affection of himself and his wife. 
Two years ago this boy now a young man grown, was 
taken into my brother-in-law’s business as a confidential 
clerk. Six months ago he disappeared suddenly and then 
it was discovered that he had by the most remarkable 
series of false entries in book-keeping deceived the firm 
and defaulted with such a large amount of money that 
the business was in a critical condition. My brother-in- 
law faced ruin. I was involved with him as I had invested 
very largely in the mines and my fortune went with his. 
To add to this sense of humiliation and to his wife’s grief 
he told of an attachment which had grown up between 
this adopted son and their only daughter. This girl is a 
favorite niece of my wife, and a very sensitive and deli- 
cate girl. The shock to her from this event has nearly 
unsettled her reason. You understand the situation. My 
brother-in-law’s mining business is in such a remote part 
of Mexico that even the newspapers have not got this 
story. You understand also that my refusal to talk has 
nothing to do with any attempt to shield a criminal or 
hinder justice. Everything is being done by officers to 


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181 


discover the runaway. Nothing that I could say would 
have anything to do with that part of the affair. By the 
sale of my large house and the addition of the little money 
in my possession I saved enough for a home for my wife 
and myself. I regard all this family history as private 
and personal. So does Mrs. Sprague and so do our chil- 
dren. It is none of the newspapers’ business. The reason 
my oldest son married so suddenly was on account of an 
opportunity to enter a business in the far west where he 
hopes to be able to make enough to put his mother and 
father back in the old house. The girl he married is as 
ambitious as he is in this way. That is all there is to 
that. It is also our own business and does not belong 
to the public. The newspapers have no more business to 
make a story out of our private affairs than the editors 
have to enter our houses and steal our furniture. That is 
the reason I have refused to talk and the family has 
refused to talk. I do not consider the newspapers to have 
any legal or moral right to meddle in matters which 
belong to the family and are in the most sacred and 
peculiar way the property of the family. Newspapers 
of our age claim the right to invade every part of life. 
Men who in their individual characters as neighbors and 
friends would blush to perform a single act of discourtesy 
to a stranger do not hesitate as newspaper men to break 
every rule of decent conduct. Nothing is sacred and 
nothing is private. The News, you will pardon me, Mr. 
Douglas, for saying it, is just as bad as the Gazette, and 
both papers are highwaymen when it comes to their greed 
for stories. Excuse me for preaching this little sermon. 
It is not a regular habit of mine.” 

Paul had listened to all this in profound astonishment. 


182 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


His first remark was prompted by his old instinctive 
reportorial ideas. 

“Do you realize what a splendid story all this would 
make, Mr. Sprague ?” 

“You have given me your word not to utter or pub- 
lish a syllable of it.” 

“And of course I will keep my word, Mr. Sprague. 
But how will you protect yourself and your family from 
the ” 

“The lies that will be told? I will let time take care 
of that.” 

Paul was very much upset over the narrative. 

“You ought to be put right. People ought to know the 
truth.” 

“But they will never have it through the papers. It 
is none of the people’s business to know it. The whole 
reading public is turned into one great universal gossip- 
loving people by the daily press. I will not be a partner 
to it.” 

Paul wondered where this citizen of Milton had been 
hiding his remarkable personality all these years. And 
he finally went away from the house carrying with him 
the details of as interesting a story as the News had ever 
published, but with the acute consciousness that he 
could not use a word of it. 

As he started off of the porch to walk down the steps 
he was startled by a figure that emerged from the shadow 
of one of the porch pillars. 

“That you, Douglas?” Paul recognized the voice of 
Caxton, a reporter for the Gazette. Paul knew him only 
slightly, but returned his greeting quietly as they started 
down the sidewalk. 


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183 


“Got anything ?” Caxton asked boldly. 

“No,” said Paul, and added, “nothing to publish.” 

“You did get something then?” 

“I said no.” 

“But you’ve been in there over half an hour. Either 
Sprague said something or he didn’t. Come now, Doug- 
las, divvy up.” 

“What!” 

“Fve got a photo of Miss Camp.” (Miss Camp was the 
young woman who married the older Sprague son.) “And 
a juicy story to go with it. I’ll share if you’ll divide yours 
with me.” 

“I’ve nothing to share,” Paul said shortly. He quick- 
ened his walk, but Caxton was a fellow of unlimited and 
unblushing assurance and he kept close to Paul and again 
repeated his request for a share of Sprague’s interview 
adding, “Hope you don’t forget what I did for you one 
day, the Lang case, remember?” 

Paul did remember and felt vexed over it. Caxton had 
indirectly been the instrument by which Paul had secured 
a piece of political news, but it was of such a character 
as to be useless to the Gazette after the News had pub- 
lished, and Caxton at the time had been hesitating about 
accepting an offer from Darcy to leave the Gazette. So 
Caxton was not disinterested. 

“I remember, but I’ve nothing to say on this case, not 
a word, Caxton.” 

“That’s your final, is it?” 

“Yes, I’m not at liberty to talk.” 

“Well, so long then.” 

Caxton turned back suddenly and Paul could not help 
turning to watch him. He saw him walk to the entrance 


184 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


of the Sprague cottage, pause a moment, then walk 
straight up to the door, and as Paul looked, he saw the 
figure enter the doorway and the door was shut. 

The next morning as soon as Darcy came in, Paul, who 
had been down to his desk before him, at once went in 
to see him. 

“I have been to interview Sprague, Mr. Darcy.” 

Darcy looked up with intense interest. 

"Well?” 

"Mr. Sprague told me a very interesting story.” 

"You had it direct from him?” Darcy looked very 
much pleased. 

"Yes, but he made me promise not to make a syllable 
of it public.” 

"What!” 

Paul repeated the statement. Darcy stared and then 
laughed ironically. 

"Must be a great story. What is it?” 

"Pm not at liberty to mention it.” 

"What! not to me?” 

"Not to any one.” 

"Do you mean that Sprague let you into his confidence 
simply to confess facts and no more?” 

"What he told me reflects the highest honor on the 
family. I don’t know just why he told me the story, but 
I do know I am pledged to silence.” 

Darcy said nothing for a few moments. He was evi- 
dently trying to control himself and Paul gave him credit 
for doing so well. 

"There is one thing I think I am at liberty to say for 
Mr. Sprague. His reason for not talking is simply this. 
He says his affairs are personal and private and that the 


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185 


newspapers have no right to them. It is none of their 
business, he says.” 

“The newspapers think otherwise,” Mr. Darcy spoke 
shortly. “The best thing that can happen to a civilized 
community is an absolutely free and unrestricted press. 
The fear of exposure in the public press is keeping count- 
less men from lives of wrong doing.” 

“But there are some matters that are private and per- 
sonal, don’t you think? We ought to respect private and 
family matters.” 

“There are very few that are absolutely private. Mr. 
Sprague is a well known public citizen. What he has 
done is a part of the public interest.” 

“Do you mean,” Paul asked, “that if you could get the 
Sprague story you would print it against the wishes of 
the family?” 

“Would I !” Darcy replied grimly. “Better not talk in 
your sleep around the News office. I’m not bound by 
any of your quixotic promises. If any one in the News 
office can get the Sprague story in its details I’ll print 
it whether the family like it or not. We are here to print 
the news for the public. When we cease to do that we 
cease to be a newspaper and we go out of business.” 

Darcy threw up the lid of his desk with a bang and 
turned his back on Paul. Paul went to his work with an 
uneasy restless feeling and a dissatisfaction with his sur- 
roundings which grew upon him during the next few 
weeks. To his surprise Darcy did not seem to have any 
particular ill will towards him for his failure to get the 
story about Sprague for the News. But an antagonism 
was steadily growing between him and Esther’s father 
which gave him a feeling of unhappiness. 


186 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


Two days after this incident Paul met Caxton on the 
street. Paul was a little curious to know if Caxton had 
found anything. 

“You saw Mr. Sprague the other night?” 

“Oh yes, yes. I saw him.” Caxton grinned. 

“You didn’t get much out of him?” Paul ventured. 

“Oh I don’t know. Didn’t I ?” Caxton said slowly. 

“The Gazette is still on the hunt?” 

“Oh yes, yes. Maybe.” Caxton was mysterious and 
Paul did not ask any more questions. 

But three weeks later the Sprague story came out in 
the Gazette, its main features much distorted and exag- 
gerated, the family displayed in large pictures and the, 
love story fully elaborated even to what purported to be 
a confession of all the details of her courtship by the 
niece of Mrs. Sprague. Along with the write up, the 
Gazette proudly explained that one of its enterprising 
reporters had gained access to the Sprague residence and 
while there had adroitly secured a letter from Mexico 
to the Spragues which had given the first clue to the 
story. Investigation had been set on foot and three 
columns and a half of remarkable mixture of truth, false- 
hood, vivisection of tender human feelings, and disre- 
gard of all human sensibilities was the result. 

Darcy called Paul’s attention to the story the moment 
it appeared. Paul had never seen him more irritated and 
disagreeable. Darcy’s whole ambition as a newspaper 
man revolved around his daily desire to beat the Gazette. 
There were times when to Paul it seemed as if this ambi- 
tion was an insane jealousy. Tha editor of the Gazette, 
a money-making journalist of very ordinary intellectual 
calibre, knew Darcy’s weak points with almost perfect 


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187 


knowledge and in nearly every number of the Gazette 
managed to goad Darcy without mentioning any names or 
even seeming to concede that there was such a paper as 
the News in Milton. Darcy had once or twice lost self 
control and attacked the Gazette openly. The memory of 
these occasions seemed to make Darcy bitter with him- 
self. The success of the Gazette in getting the Sprague 
story added to the whole sum of the feeling Darcy had 
always been accumulating. And he turned on Paul with 
a personal resentment that expressed itself in a burst of 
irony in which form of speech Darcy was a master. 

“So this boy Caxton beat you on your own ground. 
I understand he picked up the Mexico letter from a table 
near which you had been sitting while Sprague was talk- 
ing to you. Yes, I remember hearing you once say that 
Caxton was not fit to be a reporter.” 

Paul exploded. He could not help it. 

“Then I say it again. It was a sneaking thing to do 
and the Gazette in bragging about it published its own 
shame.” 

“They got the story and that is the main thing. We 
missed it and lose heavily by missing.” 

Darcy turned sullenly to his desk and Paul went out 
angrily. 

He could not disguise the disagreeable fact that a real 
difference of opinion on a vital principle had sprung up 
between Darcy and himself. When he saw Esther that 
evening he could not keep from her his depression. He 
had made up his mind not to trouble her with his troubles, 
especially those which grew out of his disagreement with 
her father, but Esther insisted on knowing what was the 
matter. 


188 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


‘'You have promised to let me share your best 
thoughts,” she said, referring to a talk they had had at 
their last meeting when Paul had been enthusiastic over 
a story plan. “Share your worst thoughts with me also. 
Are you afraid to trust me?” 

“No, Esther. But it seems cowardly in me to mention 
this matter. Besides ” 

“Has father anything to do with it?” 

“Yes. But I don’t like ” 

“Tell me all about it,” Esther said firmly. “I would 
rather know it now than learn it later or from some 
one else and probably get it in a garbled or untrue form.” 

It was then that Paul Douglas learned what a treasure 
he had for his future wife in Esther Darcy. She was 
no weak, irresolute creature, afraid of meeting trouble or 
asking to be shielded from all hardships by the man who 
loved her. She wanted to share the life they were going 
to live together. 

So Paul told her with his usual frankness just how 
matters stood, not trying to conceal the fact that he re- 
garded the condition as critical so far as Darcy and he 
were concerned. 

“You see, Esther, I find myself beginning to ques- 
tion a good many of the methods in use in the News 
office. I don’t mean to be morbid about it, but somehow 
I can’t reconcile my principles with many of the ac- 
cepted customs in newspaper work. This matter of the 
Sprague story is only one item. I am going to run into 
more trouble with your father over the advertising fea- 
tures.” 

“How? Tell me.” 

“Well, he will hand me tomorrow a list of advertise- 


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189 


merits to renew contracts on them. I never used to give 
the matter any thought. I simply regarded the advertis- 
ing as a part of the finances and the moral aspect of it 
never occurred to me. But I’ve changed my views. The 
liquor advertisements are being criticised by some of our 
subscribers. Your father does not realize yet how strong 
the temperance sentiment of the state is growing. Then 
he continues to accept a large number of patent medicines 
and other nostrums some of which are in my opinion 
absolutely harmful and a majority of which are useless 
as medicine. The mere mention of this by me will make 
your father very angry. It may lead to an open rupture 
and I may have to leave the News.” 

Esther looked grave at that. 

“But father likes you, really. He would not go so far 
as to dismiss you from the News even if you didn’t alto- 
gether agree on policies.” 

“It’s not policies, Esther, it’s principles.” 

“But father would never go so far as to make you 
leave the paper.” 

“I may have to go of my own accord.” 

Esther looked very much troubled. 

“The fact is, Esther, I made a great mistake in not 
formally asking your father if I might have his consent 
to our engagement. I should have written him before I 
wrote to you from London. But I took for granted his 
consent. The fact is, your father considered himself 
ignored in the matter and I don’t blame him. It was a 
weakness on my part.” 

“We are both of age,” Esther said with some spirit. 

“I know. But that doesn’t have any weight with your 
father. He doesn’t realize that you are grown up.” 


190 


PAUL DOUGLAS : 


Esther smiled. “I need to be grown up to face all these 
troubles. But don’t act in a hurry. Don’t be morbid 
about it.” 

“I won’t. The newspaper life is meat and drink to me. 
I don’t know what I would do if I had to leave the News. 
But I’m having some hard fights with myself over the 
things on the paper that I know are unchristian. The 
whiskey ads hit me in the face every time I look at them.” 

“You don’t own the paper, Paul. You’re only a hired 
hand after all. Even if you object, father will probably 
go on managing things as he pleases. He always has 
done it.” 

It was this last word of Esther’s that Paul remembered 
next morning when Darcy turned over the advertising 
contracts to him. What good would his protest do? He 
did not own the paper. Why be ridiculous in sticking for 
a principle when nothing could be gained by it? Darcy 
would simply get mad and make it harder for him and 
perhaps break off the relations with Esther, and no good 
accomplished. So Paul thought as he proceeded with the 
business. But he could not quiet his keen sense of what 
he ought to do. The character of the advertising was 
revolting to him. The downright falsehood in them gave 
him a loathing that made every fiber of protest in him 
quiver. 

He sat looking at the pile of contracts for several 
minutes and then suddenly gathering them up in his 
hands he went into Darcy’s room. 


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CHAPTER X. 

“Well,” said Darcy, glancing up from his work, but 
hardly looking at Paul, who had stopped at the end of 
the city editor’s desk. 

“I want to call your attention to one or two of these 
advertisements, Mr. Darcy.” 

“What about them?” Darcy eyed Paul sharply, and 
laid down his pencil. 

“Here’s this half page of Killman’s Whiskey. Can’t 
we cut it out?” 

“Cut it out?” 

“It’s getting to be a mistake, I think, Mr. Darcy. We 
get letters every day now remonstrating about the liquor 
ads. The W. C. T. U. sent in their petition the other day, 
you remember.” 

“I don’t intend to let the business end of the News be 
dictated to by a lot of old women,” Darcy snarled. 

“But public sentiment is going against us. If the 
Gazette should come out square against the liquor ads 
it would be in their favor.” 

“They carry as many as we do.” 

“But I heard the other day that Grange was considering 
the step of discontinuing. He sees the way things are 
going in the state. We are likely to have a prohibition 
law in a few years. The first paper in Milton to come 
out on that side will be the winning paper in the end.” 

Darcy eyed Paul angrily but in his heart he knew Paul 


192 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


spoke with good judgment of what was coming. He was 
shrewd enough himself to realize the force of growing 
public sentiment but he was angry to have the matter 
forced upon him by Paul. 

“Renew the contract,” he said curtly. 

“Is that final?” 

“I said renew it.” 

Paul waited a moment. 

“There are one or two others I want to ask about. 
This one. Do you think that ought to go in?” Paul 
held up a patent medicine advertisement that appears in 
nearly all large dailies. 

“What about it?” Darcy asked coldly. 

“It’s nothing but whiskey in disguise.” 

“How do you know ?” 

“It’s been shown up in a number of recent investiga- 
tions.” 

“The courts have not ruled it out.” 

“The courts have not passed on it. But you know, Mr. 
Darcy, that this stuff is a fraud as it stands.” 

“I don’t know anything of the kind. The firm pays 
good money for the space. Their testimonials of cures 
are certified. You know nothing about it.” 

Paul turned to go out. 

“There are some others here that to my mind are 
unfit to be read by the News subscribers, and you know 
they are, Mr. Darcy. They are indecent, to say nothing 
of being ” 

“Do you run the News or do I?” Darcy was furious. 
It was all true that Paul had said and Darcy knew it. 
He was all the more angry on that account. 

“It’s not my paper,” Paul said slowly. “If it was, I 


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193 


would change a good many things about it.” Paul did 
not mean as much by what he said as Darcy inferred. 
But the tone of the remark was unfortunate. It upset 
Darcy completely. He was sensitive about the paper 
and his management of it. For years he had made it a 
success as most men define success. If there were a few 
thoughtful men and women in Milton who rated the News 
for what it really was, a sensational daily that imitated 
the methods of the metropolitan yellow press, the majority 
of the readers of the paper accepted the common and 
popular verdict of an enterprising up-to-date journal. 
To have his methods criticised by a young man only a few 
years out of the High School irritated Darcy to the verge 
of madness. He spoke under the impulse of his feeling. 

“I don’t think we can get along together with our 
opposite views of the policy for the paper. I don’t feel 
like leaving, myself.” 

‘Til save you the trouble,” Paul said quickly. He also 
was speaking under great excitement. “I don’t need an- 
another hint. I’m sorry, Mr. Darcy.” Paul realized he 
was talking to Esther’s father. Darcy noticed his tone 
and was affected by it, but said nothing more. And Paul 
went out, feeling that a crisis had come for him. The 
break had come, sooner than he had expected and he 
was in the dark as to the next step. 

He talked it over with Esther when he went out to see 
her that evening. 

“It came sooner than I anticipated, but I have had a 
feeling for some time that things couldn’t go on much 
longer as they were.” 

“Did you get angry?” Esther asked. She tried to be 
very brave, but she could not hide her anxiety. 


194 


PAUL DOUGLAS : 


“Yes. I believe I did.” 

“Are you sure you acted for the best? Couldn’t you 
stay on with the paper and trust to a change in time? 
Father must surely know about the growing sentiment 
and shape the policy of the News accordingly.” 

“He knows it all right now, but he doesn’t want any 
one to tell him.” 

“You are sure you are not morbid?” 

Paul waited before he answered. He knew he was 
sensitive to a degree. He had been before he became a 
Christian, when he was living in the cold atmosphere of 
moral obligations. Now that he was acting under the 
impulse and inspiration of a personal love of Christ he 
knew that his sensitiveness to ethical ideas was vastly 
increased. But he wanted to be honest in every way with 
himself. 

“No, I don’t believe I’m morbid. My standard is dif- 
ferent from what it used to be. I look at conduct in 
another way. And I can’t be easy in my conscience to 
stay on with the News and keep still about its unchristian 
methods. If I thought I could change things by staying 
I wouldn’t have said anything. But I couldn’t see any 
hope of doing anything. Besides, it’s too late now. I 
handed in my time this afternoon and I’m off the News 
for good.” 

“Suppose father asks you to come back?” 

“The conditions would remain the same.” 

“Maybe he will change.” 

“I doubt it. You know, Esther, he is a very determined 
man when once his mind is made up.” 

“What will you do?” 


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195 


“I haven’t any plans. Do you realize, dear, that this 
will affect our plans seriously?” 

“Yes, Paul. But — I trust you fully. You know that* 
don’t you ?” 

“Yes, I don’t question that. I don’t know what I 
should do if you lost your faith in me.” 

“You needn’t be afraid of that,” Esther smiled. “1 
want you to feel sure once for all that I believe in you 
with all my heart. No matter what happens, I am going 
to be the best friend you have.” 

Paul went back to his room cheered by this assurance 
from Esther, but he could not altogether escape a feeling 
of anxiety. He had not yet learned the Christian secret 
of not worrying. He anticipated trouble. His whole 
ambition was centered about newspaper work. His break 
with the News meant serious hindrance to his plans for 
an early marriage with Esther. He did not know how 
far Darcy’s anger might lead him to oppose the match. 
And in any case, all this added to the embarrassment 
attending his engagement. 

He spent the next few days in an aimless sort of way, 
never more undecided in his mind at any time in his 
experience. He even thought seriously of going back 
home to Westville and going into business with his father. 
He wrote him asking about conditions. He had begun 
to lose hope and yield to a rare feeling of despondency 
when one morning the third week of his inactivity he 
picked up a copy of the Gazette and read a double-leaded 
editorial which gave him a new and interesting hope. 
Grange had at last announced the policy which Paul had 
told Darcy he might sometime adopt. The editorial was 
as follows: 


196 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“The Milton Gazette has always stood for progress and 
the best interests of its constituency and it has watched 
with growing convictions the march of temperance senti- 
ment in this country during the last decade, and it is 
ready to announce a policy which no doubt will provoke 
criticism from other papers in the state. The editor, 
however, is convinced that the time has come to throw 
down the gauntlet against the whole liquor business. In 
order to be consistent in the fight which the Gazette 
inaugurates today, we announce to our readers that on 
the expiration of the present liquor advertisement con- 
tracts they will not be renewed. The same policy will 
also be observed in regard to the following list of patent 
medicines (then followed the names of some very noted 
patent medicine firms, one of them being the firm manu- 
facturing the medicine criticised by Paul). 

“The Gazette calls the attention of its readers to the 
fact that no other paper in the state has taken such a 
stand as this. It means a heavy financial loss, and we face 
it cheerfully. But in doing so, we appeal to our readers 
to stand by us with their support and we pledge to uphold 
the cause of local option and ultimate state prohibition.” 

Paul was not deceived by this editorial in the least. 
He knew enough of Grange to question that editor’s 
motives as a “reformer.” The fact was that Grange 
was shrewd enough to see the force of the gathering pop- 
ular storm against the brewer and the saloon. As a 
matter of mere policy, he saw it would be a shrewd move 
to get on the side of the temperance forces. A temporary 
money loss now would be more than made up if he cham- 
pioned a growing moral cause. 

Darcy reading the editorial that same morning cursed 


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197 


Grange and that same evening denounced the motive. But 
the fact remained that the Gazette was committed to 
dropping the objectionable advertisements and the News 
still carried them and Darcy saw the result would be a 
strong tide of feeling against him, as indeed after events 
in Milton proved. 

But while Paul understood Grange’s motive, he saw, in 
what had been done, an opportunity, and in spite of his 
experience with Grange in the matter of the theater 
episode he went down to the Gazette office that morning 
and asked to see the editor. 

Grange received him civilly enough and Paul at once 
asked for a position on the paper. “I don’t think we 
would get on together,” said Grange with a sneer. “You 
have a good deal of cheek to ask it.” 

“I know I have,, Mr. Grange. But you know what to 
expect of me. And I have thought of a plan that I 
believe would be mutually agreeable. Now that you are 
committed to the temperance cause give me charge of a 
temperance department on the Gazette. I’ll promise to 
make it interesting to the readers.” 

“What made you leave the News? Quarrel with old 
man Darcy?” 

Paul colored with anger. 

“I don’t feel obliged to give my reasons for leaving.” 

“And I don’t feel obliged to take on any more hands.” 

Paul deliberately walked out of the office and went 
back to his room. He had never felt more discouraged 
in his life. It seemed to him as if he had reached the 
end of everything. He had been brooding over his 
fortunes for an hour when he had a call from the 
Y. M. C. A. office to answer the telephone. 


198 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


It was Grange’s voice, 

“Come down to the office, Douglas, I want to see you.” 

Five minutes later he was going over with Grange his 
plan for working up a temperance section for the Gazette. 
Grange expressed himself as willing to give him a trial. 

“After you left I got to thinking that a plan of that 
sort could be made to work. I don’t take stock in the 
sentiment phase of the demon rum and so forth, but I 
see how the wind blows and will have Darcy and the other 
fellows up a tree if we get the solid support of the 
churches and the temperance organizations. In ten years 
the state will elect a Governor on this issue. I mean to 
get in on the ground floor, you understand.” 

Paul did understand well enough and he felt deep dis- 
gust with Grange and his policy, but felt as if he could 
keep himself clean in his own department. Grange had 
a feeling that he was beating Darcy on his own ground 
to get his future son-in-law on the Gazette and with 
Paul’s added experience in his English trip and his un- 
questioned growing brilliancy as a writer he felt like for- 
getting the past and making himself “solid,” as he ex- 
pressed it, with the rising reform. 

That evening when Paul knocked at the Darcys’ door 
he was under considerable excitement and a glow of hope 
for the future. He had entered into an agreement with 
Grange to create and maintain a temperance department 
in the Gazette and Grange had had sense enough to give 
Paul practically full control. 

The door was opened by Darcy, and as Paul confronted 
him he saw at once that Darcy was angry as if he had 
just received some very disagreeable news. 


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199 


“Yes, come in. I want to see you,” he said, as Paul 
hesitated. 

As soon as Paul was seated in the parlor Darcy said, 
speaking with great deliberation, as if fearful of losing 
entire control of himself. 

“I think it is best under the circumstances that the 
relations between you and the Darcy family be broken 
off.” 

Paul's face was white and trembling. 

“Do you mean ” 

“I mean that our ideas are so different that we could 
never get on together.” 

Paul did not trust himself to speak for some time. 

“Does Mrs. Darcy ” 

“I don’t care to discuss family matters with you.” 
Darcy rose, but Paul, who understood it was a hint for 
him to go, kept his seat, while Darcy, with evident im- 
patience and growing loss of temper, eyed him. 

We have said that Paul Douglas was naturally stub- 
born, and unusually independent. These qualities were 
being shaped over by his Christian convictions, but under 
his new rule of life it would be too much to say that he 
was always under perfect self control or that he had 
reached a place in his conduct where he was always sure 
of himself. Under this new experience he was deeply 
agitated. He felt Darcy’s unjust treatment keenly. He 
kept saying to himself that both he and Esther 
were of age and legally justified in acting contrary to 
Mr. Darcy’s wishes. But all of Paul’s training and 
feeling revolted at the thought of any such course. The 
whole situation was painful. He had never anticipated 
anything of the kind. And one reason why he remained 


200 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


seated after Darcy had risen was in order to avoid mak- 
ing some excitable mistake which he would have reason 
to regret afterwards. 

“Mr. Darcy, do I understand that you forbid my seeing 
Esther or writing to her again?” 

“I mean that it is my desire that all relations between 
Esther and you be discontinued at once and that ” 

He was interrupted by Esther, who suddenly came into 
the room from the library. Paul was reminded curiously 
of that other time when, on the occasion of his first visit 
to the Darcys he had overheard, unknown, the talk be- 
tween Esther and Louis. The first glance at Esther’s 
face showed him that she had heard at least the last 
statement made by her father. Paul never felt prouder 
of Esther than he did at this moment and he never loved 
her more deeply and truly. 

She went up to her father in a direct and simple man- 
ner and said, 

“Father, do you mean that Paul and I shall never meet 
again ?” 

“You heard what I said, did you?” 

“I did, father, and I could not believe it. You ha^e 
not given Paul any reason.” 

“I don’t have to any more than I have. I don’t want 
you to marry him.” 

“But I have promised him I would be his wife.” 

“If you marry him, Esther, it will be against my wishes. 
I will never consent to it.” 

“Father, it is not like you. I don’t understand.” 

Esther in her turn was interrupted by Mrs. Darcy, who 
appeared at the hall doorway. 


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201 


“Albert,” she spoke to Air. Darcy, “I want to see you 
a moment.” 

Mr. Darcy paused, undecided, but finally went out into 
the hall, leaving the lovers alone. 

“It seems like a page out of some old romance, Paul,” 
Esther said, between a smile and a tear. “You could 
make a story out of it. It doesn’t seem true to me.” 

“I understand a part of it,” Paul regarded Esther with 
great longing as if he might never see her again. “Your 
father is terribly hurt by my going into the Gazette again, 
and he is prejudiced against me in the matter of my 
criticism of his conduct of the News.” 

“What shall we do?” Esther spoke calmly enough, but 
she was deeply troubled. 

“If we were like the people in the story, dear, we would 
elope before the fond maiden was immured in the donjon 
keep or wherever it was they kept her.” 

Esther blushed. Then she looked at Paul directly and 
said, “Sir, what would you say if I should reply like the 
fond maiden in the story, T will fly away anywhere with 
thee, anywhere with thee. Let us make haste and fly’ ?” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Paul, “do you mean it? Esther! 
But oh, fond maiden, how shall we fly without a flying 
machine? To tell the plain truth, Esther, I haven’t 
money enough to buy even one of the propellers, to say 
nothing of a seat in the parlor car.” 

Esther laughed. Then she grew grave and said to Paul, 
who had preserved his grave look unchanged, 

“Don’t laugh, Paul, it’s no laughing matter. Seriously, 
what shall we do ?” 

“We are of age.” Paul said it to see what Esther 
would say. 


202 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“Yes,” replied Esther, “we are of age, but how could 
we be married without father’s consent? I’ve read of 
such things in the paper, but never dreamed of doing it 
myself. I could never go through with it.” 

“But you have promised to marry me, Esther.” 

“Yes, Paul, and I will. But ” 

To Paul’s agitation she suddenly put her hands over 
her face and began to sob. It was the second time he had 
ever seen Esther lose control of herself and he felt strange 
emotion at the sight. “Esther! Esther! You musn’t. 
The right way will open for us. I know it will. Why, 
the whole thing would be laughable if it were not so 
serious. Your mother will be able to influence him.” 

Esther shook her head. “Father is never moved by 
mother’s feelings. I have never known him to be.” 

“Esther,” Paul spoke slowly. “If I were able to make 
you my wife now, would you marry me in spite of your 
father’s wishes?” 

Esther looked up to him and smiled through her tears. 

“I would do anything that would not bring disgrace on 
us or the family. I love you more than I love any one 
in the world, even my father and mother. And I know 
you would not ask me to do wrong. If you think ” 

Paul was on his feet pacing the room. He was facing 
more than one hard problem. And his mind was clear 
on one or two things which seemed plain enough. Even 
in the midst of his great agitation he heard the voices of 
Mr. and Mrs. Darcy in the sitting room. And at the 
same time he heard steps coming down the rear stairway 
and some one walked into the library. 

When he spoke he did so with great frankness and 
Esther understood him perfectly. 


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203 


“Esther, we need to look at everything in the right way. 
I am not in a position to ask you to be my wife yet. I 
have nothing but my salary as a newspaper man and 
while Mr. Randall paid all my expenses abroad, I did not 
save anything to speak of and at present I have less than 
two hundred dollars in the bank. If I stay with the 
Gazette I can and probably shall be able to save fifty 
dollars a month and add a little more from outside writ- 
ing. It would be the sorrow of my life if I persuaded 
you to take any step that you would afterwards regret. 
We don’t know whether your father will change his mind 
soon or not, but he thinks the world of you and your 
happiness. What can we do just at present, but wait 
and ” 

Esther had recovered her usual composure while Paul 
was speaking. She had a rare sense of humor for a girl 
and she was helped by it now. 

“Will you wait till I am old and homely, wrinkled and 
gray, and no more comely, hollow eyed and broken 
hearted, all the grace of life departed?” 

“Esther !” Paul looked at her. “That time will never 
come. You will always be beautiful to me.” 

“I will remember that, sir, on our silver anniversary.” 

“Surely your father will not object to our writing to 
each other!” Paul suddenly spoke. 

“I don’t know. Would you feel obliged to abide by 
such a wish on his part?” 

“Would you?” 

“O, I don’t know, Paul. We don’t have to settle so 
much all at once do we?” 

“I don’t know that we do. I want to see your father 
again and yet I don’t believe it will do any good at pres- 


204 


PAUL DOUGLAS : 


ent. Dear, whatever else we do, we understand each 
other fully. I believe I know how you shrink from the 
mere thought of doing anything in opposition to your 
father’s wishes. I will respect that feeling. You need 
not be afraid I shall try to influence you contrary to your 
convictions. But the time may come when I will claim 
my right no matter how he feels towards me.” 

At that moment Walter parted the curtains and walked 
in from the library. 

'‘Excuse me, folks,” he said, “I coughed several times 
as if in the last stages of tuberculosis and stubbed my 
toe on a chair before venturing to come in. Do I inter- 
rupt anything very serious?” 

“Shall we tell him?” asked Esther. Paul nodded and 
Esther told. Walter looked grave and exceedingly an- 
noyed. He liked Paul immensely and had a standing 
quarrel with his own father over various matters. Wal- 
ter was graduating from the college that year and plan- 
ning to leave home that fall for a law course in Columbia. 

“You don’t ask me for advice, I hope. What are you 
going to do?” 

Paul told him. “We are going to wait for the present 
in hopes your father will change.” 

“There’s no telling what father will do. He has 
changed his mind once or twice. But if he forbids your 
writing to Esther, Paul, you could write love letters to 
me and I would interpret for Esther.” 

“Thank you,” said Paul, laughing. 

“Pm awful sorry,” Walter said, rubbing his nose in 
great annoyance. “Confound it!” He considerately 
backed out of the room into the library and stumbled over 


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205 


a chair as he went back to his usual seat by the library 
table. 

The voices in the sitting room had ceased and Paul had 
not heard any one go out. It was getting late and he 
stayed on, tortured and oppressed by the fear that the 
whole affair had raised in his mind in spite of Esther’s 
undoubted love for him and her confidence in the final 
outcome. 

When at last he went away he tried to be as brave and 
hopeful as she was. But when the door shut and he was 
out on the steps he felt as if he were in the darkness 
indeed. 

Esther had given him a flower she had been wearing. 
He kissed it and carefully treasured it and the memory 
of her beautiful face as she had smiled at him when the 
parting word was spoken. 

When he reached his room he was too much excited to 
go to sleep. He paced his room late and had a troubled 
night. In the morning as he started to go down to the 
Gazette office Louis Darcy came up the stairway near 
his door. 

“Father sent me up with a note, Mr. Douglas,” Louis 
said, looking at Paul curiously. 

Paul asked him in to the room, shut the door and 
opened the note. After he had read it he looked at Louis 
in a strangely undecided manner. 


206 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


CHAPTER XI. 

The note which Louis had brought Paul from Mr. 
Darcy was as follows. 

“In asking you to sever all relations with our family 
I acted under strong provocation and, I am willing to 
admit, with much feeling but not without strong reason. 
After a time of deliberation I am ready to give my 
reasons which you asked for and I refused. 

“In plain language and without any unnecessary pre- 
liminaries I do not see how the relations can exist be- 
tween you and myself which you desire, as long as you 
are practically working against me and my interests 
through your connection with the Gazette. Knowing as 
you do the avowed purpose of a scoundrel like Grange 
to do me and my paper all the damage he can, you 
deliberately take sides with him against me, and then 
expect me to smile upon you as my future son-in-law. 
I need hardly say I make no claim to being a Christian, 
not to the extent of loving my enemies like that. 

“Now I have no personal dislike to you yourself, Paul. 
But you have taken a course which makes it impossible 
for me to consider you as a member of the family. I am 
prepared, however, to make this proposition to you. If 
you will leave the Gazette and take up your newspaper 
work with some other journal I shall not oppose your 
suit with Esther, although I am sure you are in no posi- 
tion as yet to assume the expenses of such a home as 


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207 


Esther ought to have. I do not expect you to try to 
work on the News. Our views differ too radically to 
permit it. I do not expect to change my policy in the 
matter of advertisements for any sentimental or childish 
reasons. But in plain terms, I shall oppose your engage- 
ment to Esther as long as you remain with the Gazette. 
Of course I know well enough that both Esther and 
yourself are of age and can legally refuse to be bound by 
my wishes. It is also true that Mrs. Darcy does not hold 
my views of the matter. But if you desire Esther’s 
happiness and your own you will pay attention to my 
wishes and rest assured of my constant opposition to 
your engagement as long as present conditions continue. 

“Very truly yours, 

“Albert Darcy.” 

“There is no answer,” Paul said, looking at Louis 
uncertainly. 

“Walter told me,” Louis replied wth more feeling than 
Paul had supposed him capable of displaying. “I say 
it’s too bad. What ails the Pater anyhow, after all you 
have done for me ! Why don’t you elope with Esther ? 
I’ll furnish a rope and turn in my month’s allowance 
towards the expenses.” 

Paul smiled faintly. “Thank you, Louis. I don’t think 
I’ll need the rope.” 

“Unless you want to hang yourself. Say, Mr. Douglas, 
I wish you could tutor me this winter. I don’t like the 
High School a little bit. I hate mathematics and history. 
Wish we could go abroad again. Didn’t we have a bully 
time? But I’m kind of sick of school. George feels 
just the same. He says he’s going to run away again.” 

“Once was enough for that, wasn’t it?” Paul looked at 


208 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


Louis more carefully, forgetting his own trouble for the 
time being in his thought of Esther’s wayward brother. 
Since returning to Milton, Paul had not kept very close 
track of Louis. He had been absorbed in his devotion 
to Esther and in his newspaper work and had supposed 
Louis was behaving himself and going on with his studies. 
As he looked more closely at the boy he saw marks of 
dissipation on his face that were a revelation of late 
hours and crooked ideas of life. It was disappointing to 
note the language written on the boy’s countenance. He 
would not look Paul in the eye and he shuffled his feet 
nervously and had a trick of rubbing his fingers in the 
palm of his hand. 

“You’re smoking again !” Paul said sharply. 

“No, I ain’t, that is, only a little,” Louis confessed with 
reluctance. 

“What do you mean by a little ?” 

“Not more than half a dozen a day.” 

“It’s half a dozen too much. What makes you do it, 
Louis, when you know it is stunting your growth and 
getting in the way of your future? There is hardly a 
decent business firm in Milton now that will look twice 
at a boy who uses cigarettes.” 

“I can’t help it,” said Louis sullenly. “You don’t 
know anything about my hunger for it. I’d rather smoke 
cigarettes than eat a meal.” 

Paul could not help wondering as he looked at Louis 
where he had acquired such an abominable habit. But 
Mr. Darcy was a constant smoker. Paul could not remem- 
ber ever seeing him without either a cigar or a cigarette. 
And yet Paul had more than once heard Darcy berating 
Louis for using cigarettes, lighting a fresh one in the 


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209 


middle of his stern rebuke of Louis. Mr. Darcy was too 
busy with his newspaper to do anything for Louis’ morals 
except as Louis said, to nag him for his faults, choosing 
meal times generally for that exercise, and adding sar- 
castic remarks on Louis’ mental and physical weakness. 

Yet the boy’s appeal to Paul moved him deeply as it 
had many times before. He had hoped after the London 
experience and Louis’ promise of reform and going back 
into the High School that the boy had settled down to a 
clean, wholesome life. There were other things that 
Louis evidently did not want to confess. There was a 
look of sullen fear in his eye when he looked up at Paul 
for a moment, and Paul remembering Esther’s constant 
anxiety about her brother felt his heart sink as he thought 
of what the outcome might be for Louis, petted by his 
mother, nagged by his father and neglected almost en- 
tirely so far as any real moral training was concerned. 

“I don’t know that I can tutor you, Louis, as long as I 
am out with your father. He would never permit it.” 

“I’ll leave school then,” said Louis, doggedly. He rose 
to go. 

“Wait,” said Paul, “I’ll talk with your father about it.” 

“Will you?” Louis’ face lighted up a little. “That’s 
good of you. Well. I don’t forget all you’ve done for 
me, Mr. Douglas.” 

“Louis,” Paul walked over to him and put his hand 
on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t you want to do right? 
Don’t you care to grow up into a strong, pure, useful 
man ?” 

Louis’ face paled and then reddened. 

“I don’t stand any show. Every one’s down on me 
but you and Esther.” 


210 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“Louis, tell me how I can help you. Honest, now, I 
want to help you.” 

For a moment Louis seemed on the point of confessing 
something to Paul. His lips trembled. His face worked 
hysterically. Then he shrugged his shoulders. 

“Much obliged. Pve nothing to say to that. You 
wouldn’t understand it anyhow.” 

“Maybe I would.” Paul was reluctant to let Louis go. 

“No, I — I — haven’t anything. Good-bye.” 

He went out quickly and Paul felt much dissatisfied 
with the result of the interview. 

“I ought to have insisted on his confidence. It was a 
mistake to let him go. He is keeping something from the 
family.” 

Paul was almost minded to go down stairs and bring 
Louis back, but after an indecisive moment he sat down 
to think over Darcy’s letter and dismissed Louis for a 
time from his thought. 

He pondered over his answer and Darcy’s letter. He 
started to write an answer and finally abandoned it. At 
last he determined to have it over by going to Darcy 
and frankly having a talk with him. 

When he went into the office Darcy was busy in the 
telegraph editor’s room. Paul waited for him. When 
Darcy came in and saw him there he said “Good morn- 
ing” evenly enough and Paul somewhat nervously replied. 

“I thought I’d better come and see you in person in 
answer to your letter.” 

Mr. Darcy lighted a fresh cigar. Then he went over 
to the door and shut it. Then he sat down at his desk 
and eyed Paul with a look of mingled hope and distrust. 

“Have you left the Gazette?” 


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“No, I don’t see how I can leave with honor. I have 
made Grange a definite promise. I feel bound to keep 
it until ” 

“Until some other fantastic scruple comes up. You 
refuse my propositon? You know my mind about Esther, 
then.” 

Paul was very pale and inwardly full of excitement. 
He had never felt so nervous and depressed. 

“I can’t leave the Gazette, Mr. Darcy, without dis- 
honor. I could never clear myself with Grange. You 
have no right to ask me to do such a thing.” 

“I suppose, however, I have a right to say who shall 
be my son-in-law, or at least express an opinion.” 

“Mr. Darcy, Esther and I are ready to respect your 
wishes if you forbid us to see each other or be married 
until you are ready to give your consent. At least,” Paul 
said slowly, “until the time comes when in the sight of 
God and men we would be wholly justified in acting 
contrary to your wishes. You spoke in your letter about 
Esther’s happiness. She would not be happy to act con- 
trary to your wishes. And neither will she be happy 
under the present arrangement.” 

“As long as you stay with the Gazette you have my 
opposition to your engagement. I shall use all my in- 
fluence with Esther to have the engagement broken off.” 

Paul was trembling with excitement and feeling. 

“Mr. Darcy, you cannot do that. Esther and I love 
each other more than ever. Our engagement is almost as 
sacred a thing as a marriage itself. We both look at it in 
the same way. Neither legally nor morally have you a 
right to break our engagement. We are both ready to 
respect your wishes for the time being. I will not go 


212 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


to the house and I will not see Esther or write to her. 
But in the sight of God she is plighted to be my wife and 
when I am in a position to offer her a home I shall ask 
her to leave your’s and come to mine. ,, 

“Esther will never be your wife,” Darcy said coldly, 
and at no time during this strange interview had Paul 
felt so downcast. He looked appealingly at the city 
editor to note any possible softening of purpose, but 
could not detect any. Darcy was one of those narrowly 
stubborn minds that consider it a mark of great weakness 
to change an opinion once strongly expressed, and Paul’s 
action in going to the Gazette had touched his pro- 
fessional ambition in its sorest and tenderest spot. He 
could forgive at rare intervals, but not in the case of 
Grange or his paper. 

So Paul rose to go as Darcy turned to his desk and 
took up a pile of letters. 

“I am going to write to Esther and tell her of this 
interview and then I am going to work and make money 
enough to build us a home sometime.” 

“Not with my consent,” said Darcy slowly. 

“Mr. Darcy, you will give us your consent when the 
time comes, I know you will,” Paul spoke with an out- 
burst of sudden feeling. He was almost crying. Darcy 
did not answer. Paul stepped to the door. With his 
hand on it, he thought in a flash of his promise to Louis 
and he turned back. 

“O, there’s one thing I forgot, Mr. Darcy. Louis 
wants me to tutor him again. May I ?” 

“What !” 

“Louis is sick of the High School and wants me to 
tutor him. Of course he could come to my room at 


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the Y. M. C. A. I believe he is in a critical condition.” 

“I’ll put that boy in the reform school,” said Darcy, 
savagely. 

“It would simply ruin him to do that, Mr. Darpy,” 
Paul went on earnestly. “Let Louis come to me. I’ll 
do anything in my power for him. To the best of my 
knowledge he is getting into some sort of serious trouble. 
I believe I can do something for him. Let me, won’t 
you ? I’ll tutor him for nothing. I’ll ” 

“No,” said Darcy sullenly, “I’ll deal with him myself. 
He will either stay in school or come into the office here. 
I’ve borne with him long enough.” 

Paul turned sorrowfully away. 

“If the time shall ever come when I can be of any 
use to him, I hope you will let me, Mr. Darcy. You 
know me well enough to trust me in this, no matter what 
you think of other matters.” 

“That’s all right,” Darcy gruffly replied. And Paul 
went away with a feeling that when next Louis and his 
father met there would be an explosion that would 
result in some act on Louis’ part that would be dis- 
astrous to him. 

At first Paul felt like yielding to the depression that 
had set in like a tide over his spirit. When he had fin- 
ished his day’s work and had gone to his room to write 
to Esther he began in a hopeless sort of way. But he 
tore up the first letter and wrote another, and as he 
proceeded with it the thought of the girl’s pure, en- 
thusiastic, loyal devotion to him gave him courage and 
hope. 

A few sentences from the letter reveal Paul’s heart at 
this time of crisis for him. 


214 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“As your father feels towards me now I do not believe 
it is best to disobey his wishes, and he has plainly ex- 
pressed himself even to the extent of saying he would 
do all he could to break off our engagement. Dear, I do 
not believe he has either legal or moral right to do this, 
and I also believe he will in time change his mind and 
give his full consent to our marriage. I feel like obeying 
his wishes in the matter of not seeing you or writing to 
you. You will also feel the same way about this. But 
not even your father can compel us to cease loving each 
other. I am, in the sight of God, Esther, your lover. 
Your picture is on my desk as I write, and while I don’t 
need it to remind me of your dear face I am reminded 
as I look at it that I am rich in the love of the best heart 
that ever beat. All I ask of you is that you wait. I am 
going to work hard. I will not mope or despair. I don’t 
hardly know how I can live in the same town with you 
and never see you and it seems absurd when you stop 
to think of it. I can’t help thinking your father will see 
the injustice and absurdity of it all sooner than any one 
•else. He is not at heart an unfair man. And while he 
seldom changes his mind he has done so, notably you 
remember in my own case in the matter of the story 
writing. 

“But I want you to think of me as hard at work for 
our future. The Companion accepted one of my stories 
the other day. All checks for stories go into the savings 
bank for our house. I promise not to go around weeping, 
with my hair down, and wringing my hands. Talking 
about ringing hands, one of these days I will ring yours. 
Pardon me, I will not do this again. Dear Heart, I love 
Thee.” 


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215 


Esther’s reply came the next day. One part of the 
letter gave Paul a sense of relief while he had a pang 
over it. 

“Father told me this morning that he wanted me to 
go to Ashbury to school and I am getting ready to go. 
I shall leave next week and be gone until Christmas. 
I don’t feel sorry over this. I shall take a special music 
course and fit myself in every way to be your wife. 
Paul, I have always regarded our engagement as a very 
sacred thing, next to marriage itself. You need have no 
fear of my heart. I believe father will give his consent 
in time. I will wait for you in great hopes of it soon. 
Mother feels deeply grieved over all this. She sends 
love to you. And O, Paul, do all you can for Louis. 
The boy is going wrong again. When I am away from 
home I fear to think of what will happen to him. I 
have your picture. Better still I have your love and I 
believe in you, Paul, and feel proud of you and trust 
you with all my heart.” 

In the weeks that followed Esther’s departure Paul 
set himself resolutely to work to keep himself busy and 
succeeded in keeping happy also, somewhat to his own 
surprise. Grange, as we have said, had given him great 
freedom in working up the temperance section of the 
Gazette and Paul threw himself into the work with the 
greatest enthusiasm. Letters had already begun to come 
into the Gazette office commending Paul’s work. He was 
making a hit. Grange was shrewd and saw that Paul’s 
work was in line with the strong sentiment which in a 
few years would dominate even the politics of the state. 
So he let Paul have more and more freedom and gave 
him larger space than he had originally planned. Paul 


216 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


used the camera effectively, worked up his stories in 
graphic dramatic language and put his whole soul into 
his department. For the first time in his life he found 
himself doing newspaper work that expressed his sincere 
heart convictions and practically in an atmosphere of 
mental freedom as if he actually owned the paper. He 
did not fully know it himself but he was beginning to 
do the best work of his life so far, in shaping and edu- 
cating thousands of readers’ convictions. And that in 
itself is about the greatest work a young man can do. 

Milton had its slum district known as the “Meadows.” 
This was the resort of the criminal and dissolute popula- 
tion. There were a dozen notorious dives in this section 
of the city run by negroes and white men. The negro 
population of Milton was about 4,000, for the most part 
industrious and hard working people. The exceptions 
were found in the “Meadows.” 

Paul went down into this section to gather material 
for his department. So far he had with unsparing 
distinction called the attention of Milton to the saloon 
as an institution. At this time Milton had eighty-two 
licensed saloons. Fifty of these were up town. They 
were the “respectable” places. Fitted up with mahogany 
furniture, bevelled cut glass mirrors and alluring pic- 
tures. The thirty-two other saloons were dens, for the 
most part crowded every night with white and black 
men and women, and the scenes of daily violation of law 
and order and the debauching of youth. Nevertheless, 
these dens had just as good a license from the U. S. 
government to sell poison to the people as the gilded 
resorts up town. And the revenue officers of this great 
and glorious republic received the same price from each 


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217 


one of the Milton saloons no matter whether it was paid 
by a man who lived in one of the fine residences on 
Capital hill or by a man who put up in a shack down in 
the slum quarter. And the money of the one man was 
just as good to pay the bills of the government as the 
money of the other. 

Paul’s pictures of some of the scenes in the “Meadows” 
when reproduced in the Gazette created a sensation with 
readers of the paper. He began to receive threatening 
letters from men who wrote anonymously. He showed 
some of them to Grange. 

‘‘Print ’em,” was about all Grange said. 

Paul inserted half a dozen and in a vigorous article 
called the attention of Milton people, especially the 
thoughtful Christian people to the dangerous conditions 
existing in the “Meadows/’ and predicted that sometime 
there might be serious outbreaks there between the whites 
and the blacks. 

He did not anticipate as he wrote the article that his 
prediction would come true so soon. 

Two weeks went by. Public sentiment was growing 
fast in Milton. Two of the most prominent ministers 
had preached on the subject of local option. Darcy’s 
paper had sneered at the idea of any trouble, had attacked 
the temperance people as narrow fanatics and denounced 
them as destroyers of personal liberty. But Paul, young 
as he was, felt certain that the great temperance move- 
ment over the civilized world was going to surge through 
the city of Milton, and shake old and long established 
evil to its foundation. He found himself praying every 
night for such an upheaval. The swarms of boys and 
young men, and young women in the saloons had ap- 


218 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


pallel him. It did not seem possible that the people of 
Milton, especially those in the churches could remain 
indifferent much longer. 

It was two o’clock in the morning. The Gazette was 
just throwing off its first edition. Paul, who usually 
stayed until that time, was just about to leave when 
word came into the reporters’ room, “Trouble in the 
‘Meadows.’ ” 

Paul went out and with all his keen reportorial instincts 
alive for a good story he ran nearly all the way down 
to the slum section. 

It was the hour of night when usually there was the 
minimum of traffic and passing in the street, but groups 
of men were running down the alleys and side streets 
all making for the “Meadows.” As Paul ran by a street 
lamp at one corner he was startled to see a dozen men 
go by, each one of whom wore a mask. 

Adjoining the “Meadows” was the negro residence 
district of Milton. This was built up with comfortable 
houses and, with the exception of the criminal and saloon 
element which owned the dives it was orderly and law 
abiding. 

When Paul reached this district he found nearly every 
negro, old and young, out in the streets of the little town 
or standing with looks of great fear on their faces in 
the yards in front of their homes. 

After that first impression of something serious, Paul 
kept in all his after memory as long as he lived only the 
outstanding sharply distinct events of a memorable night. 

A crowd of men, most of them wearing masks, sud- 
denly attacked a small store owned by a negro, almost 
in front of the spot where Paul stood. The owner offered 


JOURNALIST 


219 


no resistance farther than to cry out, “For the Lord’s 
sake, let my wife and children come out !” 

The whole front of the store was torn off in a re- 
markably brief and furious onset. Then the mob surged 
into the store and proceeded to throw everything through 
the demolished front. Young boys and even women, 
Paul noted, rushed in and out, breaking open boxes, 
tearing flour sacks and smashing bottles, tearing out the 
counters and trampling groceries of various kinds into 
the mud. A drizzling rain was falling. The negroes for 
the most part stood by silently. Groups of them, how- 
ever, passed Paul, carrying household goods, and in the 
gathering uproar making an effort to leave the town. 

The next thing Paul noted was the increased number 
of boisterously drunken people. This class began to 
gather in front of the negro houses and throw stones and 
bricks at the doors and windows. The mob increased 
with marvelous swiftness. The uproar grew into a vol- 
ume of sound that rose above the noise of the storm. 
Suddenly about a block from the store the sound of a 
gun shot came. The mob almost to a man turned and ran 
towards the sound. Other shots rang out. Paul saw 
dozens of men pull revolvers out of their pockets and 
fire into groups of defenseless women and children 
who were standing in their yards. A mask fell from the 
face of one of the mob. Paul was near enough to recog- 
nize the man, who was a small merchant running a shop 
close by the News Office. This man disdained to replace 
his mask and flourished his revolver in the face of a 
negro who was running out of his yard into the street. 
The negro threw up his hand, and the other man shot 


220 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


him, and ran on firing in a mad and reckless indifference 
right and left into the houses. 

The next thing Paul remembered was a sudden glare of 
light illuminating the street. The mob had fired another 
store and the owner’s house which stood near by. The 
drunken, frenzied crowd rushed in and seized burning 
timbers and threw them up into the air. They rushed 
into the blazing interior of the room and smashed every- 
thing they could reach and hurled it back into the 
flames. The scene was barbarous. It belonged to 
3,000 years ago. Paul had difficulty in holding his mind 
to the fact that he was in a modern, civilized town in the 
United States, a town with churches, Christian people 
and Christian culture. He was pushed by the mob, at 
times helpless in the very middle of it, noting with his 
newspaper habits the dramatic savage details, conscious 
every minute more and more distinctly that he was wit- 
nessing an exhibition of what drink and race hatred 
can do even in a nominal civilization two thousand years 
after Christ. 

The night wore away and dawn came in a burst of 
angry rain and wind, but the mob showed no signs of 
lessening either in numbers or ferocity. The Milton 
fire department came down to the scene. The mob cut 
the traces on the horses’ harness, slit the hose into frag- 
ments and overturned the hose carts and ladder wagons. 
Half the houses in the negro district were on fire. Nearly 
all of the rest were looted. Separate mobs of boys and 
young men went by carrying arms full of crockery, 
clocks, clothing, and furniture. Paul remembered one 
instance where a half dozen drunken men, their faces 
blackened and burned, were dragging and pushing a 


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221 


piano, the front of which had been torn off and one 
broken splinter from which was flung by the wind across 
the key board, making a jangle of sounds as it scratched 
back and forth the whole width of the instrument. 

For three days Milton was in the grip of this drunken 
mob. In that time seven negroes and two white men and 
one woman were killed and scores more, black and white, 
were injured. When the end came, three-fourths of the 
negro houses in the district were in ashes. Two thousand 
negroes were fleeing southward carrying all they had in 
the world in their arms. The local authorities made no 
effort worth mentioning to quell the mob. An attempt 
was made the second day to close the saloons. It was 
only partially successful. All through the mob rule, 
saloons were raided by the crowd and barrels of whiskey 
opened and set at street corners for use by the mob. 
Milton had a taste of hell on earth for those three days 
and their history will make an enduring shame for the 
city. 

Paul hardly ate or slept during the whole horrible 
period. He did his newspaper work under tremendous 
pressure of excitement. He wrote with his heart blazing 
with indignation at what he had seen and heard. 

The fourth day he was called into the manager’s office. 
Grange was excited and angry over an article in Paul’s 
department and called his attention to it. 

“See here, Douglas, you are not editing the opinions 
of the Gazette on this race question. You have nothing 
to do with that. These niggers are only getting what’s 
coming to them. It won’t do to stir up this question. 
You can say what you like about the miserable nigger 
dives, etc., but it won’t do to raise the question of white 


222 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


men to blame for the mob. Milton won’t stand for that. 
The Gazette can’t afford to take that attitude.” 

“Mr. Grange, white men were the aggressors. I saw 
scores of them fire at the negroes and I saw only one 
negro shoot at any one and he was defending his family.” 

“It won’t do to say so in the Gazette. It would ruin 
me, do you understand, if the real truth were told. This 
is a case where we must go soft and easy. Heavens! 
Douglas, do you realize that race hatred is so strong 
as to provoke a regular massacre all over the North 
sometime !” 

Paul was silent. Then he said, 

“Mr. Grange, I -recognized a dozen prominent white 
men in the mob.” 

Grange seemed very eager to know, for some reason. 
“Name them,” 

“I’m going to do it when the grand jury meets.” 

Grange got up and went over to Paul. 

“Douglas, you will do nothing of the kind.” 

“I will though,” replied Paul, doggedly. 

“Then you leave this paper. I will not have the 
Gazette dragged into the affair in any way. Who are 
the men? Tell me.” 

Grange seemed very eager to know for some reason. 
Paul kept his temper and answered quietly. 

“I will not tell you or any one else until I am 
summoned.” 

Grange looked exceedingly anxious. Paul started to 
go out. “Wait,” said Grange. “I want to ask you a 
question.” And Paul came back and faced the editor, 
realizing that some unusual excitement was possessing 
the mind of the man who for more than one reason 
wanted to suppress the real facts about the mob. 


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223 


CHAPTER XII. 

“Who were some of the men in the mob?” 

“I don’t care to tell you, Mr. Grange.” 

“Was there anyone there from the Gazette?” Grange 
spoke as if dreading Paul’s answer and yet eager to 
get it. 

“Yes, I might as well say I saw ” 

“Well ” 

“I don’t want to speak any names, Mr. Grange, until 
the authorities ask for them.” 

Grange spoke almost in a whisper. 

“Did you see Walker in the mob?” 

Walker was the foreman of the Gazette press room 
and a brother-in-law to Grange. 

Paul hesitated while Grange waited. 

“Seeing you ask so directly, I might as well say I did 
see him. His mask fell off when I was standing within 
a few feet of him.” 

“Did you see him do anything?” 

“Yes.” 

“What?” 

“I saw him shoot his revolver several times into houses 
along the street.” 

Grange sat down trembling violently. 

“Douglas, I suppose you know who Walker is, that is, 
his relations to me?” 

Paul nodded. 


224 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“It will never do for this fact of his presence with the 
mob to be published. You understand how I am inter- 
ested in this matter and these niggers have for years 
made themselves very obnoxious to Milton. They have 
been insolent and overbearing. They have been a menace 
to law and order. The town will be well rid of them if 
every last one of them goes. I am advocating that in 
today’s issue as the only peaceable and permanent solu- 
tion of the whole trouble. Of course I deplore the vio- 
lence and all that, but the niggers provoked it. Walker 
is a rabid nigger hater. The young toughs have been 
robbing his peach trees this summer. But his name 
must never be mentioned to the Grand Jury, Douglas; 
you understand that of course. I look to you to see that 
it is not mentioned.” 

Grange paused and his face, pale with excitement, 
confronted Paul. 

Now Grange did not know Paul in any way intimately, 
He was not a Christian man himself and did not under- 
stand one who was. He was a money lover and a money 
getter. When he died, people would say an enterprising 
and useful citizen had gone, and three columns would be 
printed recording his abilities and the size of the property 
and its value. But about all the Recording Angel could 
put down honestly would be the fact that the man had 
never been in jail and never committed a crime for which 
he had ever been arrested. Let us be fair. This news- 
paper proprietor was a narrowly shrewd, selfish-minded 
journalist who always looked after number one, and 
throughout the whole of his life, although an immense 
debtor to Christian institutions and Christian civilization, 
had never acknowledged the debt, had never recognized 


JOURNALIST 


225 


Christ as his teacher and master, had never confessed 
him before men, had never lifted his finger or gone out 
of his way to save the soul of a fellow-man. His own 
soul revolved twenty- four hours a day around his paper. 
His enthusiasm and passion in life was to beat the other 
paper and make money. 

Paul had been silent a long time after Grange had 
stopped. He went to one of the office windows and 
looked out. It was useless for him to deny that he was 
in a difficult position. From his earliest childhood his 
mother had taught him the sacred nature of a promise 
and he had been trained every day in the duties of 
Christian citizenship. He had imbibed with every breath 
the conviction that the republic into which he was born 
was a government of law, and that all who belonged to 
it owed it to its life to defend its institutions and be 
jealous of its good name. 

Now almost accidentally he had come into possession 
of facts as a witness. These facts belonged to the 
authorities. Probably Walker had told Grange that Paul 
had seen him in the mob. Even if Paul had refused 
to say anything, Grange knew of his knowledge. And 
now he was asking, yes, commanding him to suppress 
this knowledge. What was this if not treason to the 
state? It was a terrible thing that Walker and other 
leading men in Milton were there. But that was their 
shame. What would become of the republic if large 
offenders escaped punishment on account of their social 
prominence? And small and obscure men were dealt 
with severely? One might as well renounce his citizen- 
ship and go back to the old barbaric life. 

Paul turned around from the window. Grange was 


226 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


sitting at his desk trembling, fingering a pencil nervously. 

“I can’t do what you ask, Mr. Grange. If the Grand 
Jury is impaneled and if I am summoned I shall testify 
fully to what I saw.” 

Grange started up in his chair with an oath. 

“You will not! Do you understand what this means? 
By heavens ! Douglas, you don’t realize the consequences.” 

“I believe I do.” 

Grange walked up to him, his face purple with rage. 

“You do it at your peril. Walker will lick you within 
an inch of your life if he knows you are going to tell 
on him.” 

Paul did not answer, and Grange, who took his silence 
for hesitation of purpose, waited. Still Paul did not 
speak. And Grange again sat down. Paul made a 
motion to go out. 

“Do I understand you will publish Walker’s name?” 

“I shall give the names of all the men I saw and whom 
I know.” 

Grange jumped up again with an oath. He walked 
up to Paul in a threatening manner and exclaimed, 

“You sever your connection with the Gazette from 
this moment. And I give you fair warning you will 
have to deal with Walker, not with me after this.” 

Paul was pale but self possessed. 

“I understand your threat perfectly and I am glad to 
be warned.” 

He opened the door and stepped out. Grange suddenly 
rushed up and seized him by the arm, pulled him back 
into the room and shut the door. It fastened with a 
night latch and Grange secured it. Then he said to 
Paul quietly, “Come over here.” Paul, \yith growing 


JOURNALIST 


227 


astonishment, followed Grange over to his desk and in 
a moment realized what the editor was going to do. 

Grange had always believed all his life long that every 
man has his price. He saw no difference between Paul 
and scores of other young men who had worked on the 
newspaper. He thought he was pig-headed and stubborn 
in this matter of testifying and wanted to gain some 
notoriety before the public. With all that intense and 
narrow view of motive, Grange resorted to a last appeal, 
one which would have great weight with himself and 
must necessarily, he thought, have weight with any 
young man of limited means. 

He pulled his check book out of the pigeon-hole and 
filled out a leaf deliberately. Then he tore off the check 
and handed it up to Paul. 

“A little advance salary, you understand, Mr. Douglas.’' 
Paul did understand as he read the check. It was made 
out for $100 and signed by Grange. 

He read it over slowly and then with a look at Grange 
which even that drill reader of character understood, Paul 
tore the check into several small pieces and dropped them 
into the waste paper basket. 

Grange flared up with an ugly smile. 

“I understand that.” 

“I’m glad you do. Up to this time I’ve thought you 
didn’t.” 

Grange burst into an oath and what he said as Paul 
went out was inarticulate. But Paul did not forget for 
a long time his look of baffled desire. 

When he got out on the street he breathed freer. It 
seemed for a time as if he would choke to think that 
Grange had tried to bribe him to keep silence. He had 


228 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


read of such things, in fact they were among the regular 
stock items in almost every day’s issue of every news- 
paper, but Paul had never supposed any series of events 
could connect his name with such an attempt. 

He went up to his room and shut the door. He wanted 
to think over the situation. 

It must be remembered that Paul Douglas at this time 
was in the very beginning of his Christian life. He had 
plenty of enthusiasm, but not much experience. He had 
very clear ideas of duty and he was by temperament 
stubborn and dogged when once convinced of what was 
right. He had not the shadow of a doubt concerning 
his duty to appear before the Grand Jury and testify. 
The threat of personal violence made by Grange for 
Walker, Paul regarded as very improbable. He gave it 
hardly a serious thought. By nature he was without 
fear, and it had not occurred to him that his appearance 
before the Grand Jury was liable to throw him into 
a place of personal danger. He was once more without 
a position and he could not help thinking of Darcy’s 
attitude towards him now, and wondering whether he 
would send for him or indicate in any way a change of 
feeling when he found that Paul had been discharged 
from the Gazette. As he sat in his room, which was on 
the top floor of the Y. M. C. A. building and remote 
from the other rooms even on that floor, he went over 
all the scenes of the morning and made up his mind that 
until he was settled in newspaper work somewhere he 
would go on with his writing. He had under way several 
paragraphic articles for the Companion and had almost 
finished a short serial for another paper. 

“If I could only see Esther now!” he could not help 


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exclaiming, as he looked up at her photograph in its 
familiar place on the desk. “It's absurd that I have 
bound myself not to write to her. I must write. I’ll not 
keep any such foolish promise.” 

He acted on the impulse of the moment and wrote a 
long and impassioned letter to Esther. After he had 
written it he put it in an envelope and directed it and 
threw it down on his desk. And then with his intensely 
sensitive loyalty to the truth and his temperamental hatred 
of subterfuge and sham he said to himself, “I promised 
both Esther and her father I would not write for a time. 
How foolish ! But I did promise.” 

He walked back and forth and was angry with him- 
self and with Darcy and every one else except Esther. 
He was still pacing the room when there was a knock 
at the door and in reply to his call, “Come in,” the door 
opened and Eouis appeared. He shut the door and looked 
at Paul furtively. Paul spoke kindly to him. 

“Well, Eouis, how are you? What can I do for you?” 

Louis, without any warning, sat down at the desk and 
burst out crying. 

“I want you to help me, Mr. Douglas.” 

“Well, I will if I can. Tell me all about it when you 
are able.” 

Paul put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and waited. 
Louis sobbed for several minutes. After a while he 
quieted down. 

“Don’t keep anything back. I can’t help you if you 
don’t make a clean breast.” 

“All right, Mr. Douglas. Well— well— , Pm engaged.” 

“Engaged! Well, is that a crying matter?” 


230 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“Not for you, perhaps. But it is for me. Do you 
know Ada Wyeth?” 

“No.” 

“Well, I’ve got into no end of trouble. Ada is a flirt. 
She is extravagant. She says if I don’t take her to the 
Caxton Reception next week she will go with Wilson 
Spence, and she threatens to tell father of our engage- 
ment. I don’t know what father would do. He would 
almost kill me if he knew about it.” 

Paul could hardly help laughing at Louis’ wail. But 
he looked grave. Louis went on. 

“I’ve spent my last cent on Ada. She is ungrateful. 
She wants all sorts of extravagant things. Our engage- 
ment ring cost $10. I had to borrow the money from 
Walter. Pm getting behind with my class work. Princi- 
pal Gage threatened today to report me if I didn’t do bet- 
ter. I’m in trouble all around. But Ada’s the worst.” 

“Why don’t you break the engagement with Ada ?” Paul 
said. He had to say something to keep from bursting 
into laughter or tears over Louis’ plight. 

“Ada won’t let me. She says she loves me and I 
think everything of her, but if she tells father — and I 
can’t afford to take her to Caxton’s. He’s President of 
the class and the richest fellow in it, and his folks are 
going to make it the swellest function of the year. I 
can’t borrow any money of Walter, and Esther stopped 
letting me have money long ago. I don’t dare tell 
Mother. You’re the only friend I’ve got !” 

Paul looked at Louis and sighed. All temptation to 
laugh at him vanished. He was foolish and vain and 
aping the ways of the world, he was hysterical and 
nervous from the cigarette habit and cruelly grown old 


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while still remaining a child, the product of neglect at 
home and a false and vicious standard of social life, 
which in many parts of America pushes children into an 
artificial imitation of real life, denying to them any simple 
or natural habits and fostering a criminal selfishness and 
extravagance. Paul could not help sorrowfully con- 
templating Louis as a spoiled child of a sham human 
society which in many Christian communities slaughters 
the innocents on the altar of social worship. 

Louis put his head down on the desk and Paul paced 
the room again. 

“I think your mother ought to know, Louis. A boy’s 
best friend is his mother.” 

“I don’t dare tell her,” a muffled voice came from Louis. 

“Will you take a note to your mother from me?” 

“I’ll do anything to get out of my scrape.” 

Paul thoughtfully eyed the bowed head on the table. 

“I’ll write her if I may come and see her about you. 
You can telephone the answer to the office here. If I 
have a talk with her I am to tell her every thing.” 

“O, I suppose so,” Louis groaned. 

“Of course I can’t promise to help you unless I can 
do that. I would go to your father, but you know I’m 
not in favor with him. I don’t think he would listen to 
anything I would say for you.” 

“No,” replied Louis, lifting up his head nervously. 
“Don’t go to father. I don’t mind your telling mother.” 

So Paul went over to his desk and wrote a brief note 
to Mrs. Darcy, asking when he might call, and telling 
her it was in the interests of Louis and very important. 
He left the letter on the desk while he got up and paced 
the room, talking to Louis. Louis thanked Paul as he 


232 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


started to go out. He was much agitated and thrust what 
Paul gave him into his coat pocket as he went away. 

He had been gone five minutes when Paul, who had 
been going over the scene in his mind, looked down at 
the desk and missed the letter he had written to Esther. 
It had been addressed to the school at Ashbury, but he 
had not sealed or stamped it. In a second it flashed 
across him that he had given Louis Esther’s letter, for 
there on the desk pushed back a little from the front 
was the note addressed to Mrs. Darcy. 

He ran to the window and opened it, and looked out, 
but it was pitch dark. He went out into the hall and 
then came back again. 

He smiled a little at his absent-mindedness and sat 
down to await developments. Ten minutes went by. 
Steps came up the stairs and Louis appeared at the door. 
He was out of breath and showed signs of having run. 

“You gave me the wrong letter. I found it out before 
I got home, and came back.” 

“My mistake,” replied Paul, turning red. “All right, 
give it here.” 

Louis stared. “I can’t. I mailed it. I thought you 
wanted it to go.” 

“It’s gone any way?” said Paul, laughing. “But it 
wasn’t stamped.” 

“I had two cents left and I bought a stamp at Cane’s 
drug store,” said Louis. 

“I’ll owe you two cents,” said Paul gravely. He gave 
Louis the note to his mother and Louis departed again, 
leaving Paul to a somewhat mixed tumult of feelings 
over the events of the evening. 

Next day both the papers announced the decision to 


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call a Grand Jury to investigate the facts about the riot. 
The Gazette bitterly opposed the call and said it was a 
useless expense for the county and would be a sham 
any way. The News advocated the summoning of the 
Jury, and Darcy in his editorial took a high and virtuous 
stand for law and order, but commented strongly on the 
fact of the negroes being the aggressors. 

After the News had gone to press a notice was posted 
up on its bulletin board that the Grand Jury would be 
impaneled the next day. Several important witnesses 
were mentioned and among them it was said Paul Doug- 
las of the Gazette was expected to make some sensa- 
tional statements involving prominent citizens. 

Paul read the bulletin, standing in the crowd out in 
front of the News building. It was an orderly gathering, 
but sullen and hard faced. Paul heard many expressions 
denouncing the niggers and voicing what seemed like a 
general desire that Milton be freed from them entirely. 

Pie went up to his room and tried to do some writing, 
but as the night wore on he grew restless and for the 
first time began to realize the seriousness of the action 
when he would confront the Grand Jury with his testi- 
mony. He fortified his memory with the exact names 
and incidents and went over again the appalling scenes 
of the mob. As he stopped in his accustomed walk across 
the room he heard the clock out on the city hall tower 
strike eleven. As it ceased he heard a step come along 
the hallway and stop at his door. There was a light 
knock and Paul went to the door and opened it. 

Instantly a large, heavy man pushed in, thrust him 
aside, shut the door, and turned the key, took it out, put 
it in his pocket, and whirled around, facing Paul. It 


234 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


was Walker of the Gazette and one look at him showed 
Paul the man’s intention before he spoke. 

“You young whelp, I’m going to give you the thrash- 
ing of your life ! I’ll teach you to sneak on me !” 

Paul was, as we have said, without fear, but he saw 
in a flash his peril. His room was in the farthest corner 
of the large building. The floors were deadened and 
there was no one occupying the nearest room to his own. 
Even if he tried to open a window and call out, it was 
doubtful if any one could be summoned at that hour of 
the night. Walker was a very fleshy, even corpulent, man, 
weighing at least seventy-five pounds more than Paul, 
and with his inflamed face, his bullet head, and short, fat 
neck, he confronted Paul, putting out a fist that trembled 
and shook with nervous rage. 

“Put up your hands, you sneak! I won’t hit even a 
coward like you without giving him a chance !” 

Paul instinctively threw up his hands, and Walker 
madly hurled his body forward. Paul stepped aside and 
Walker missed him entirely. He turned and with a roar 
like some wild animal he lunged at Paul again. But 
before Paul could even make a feint of returning his 
blow, the man fell with all his might on the floor. The 
jar shook the room. Paul waited a moment in absolute 
suspense. Walker did not stir. Paul kneeled by him and 
turned his face up to the light. Foam was on his lips 
and his eyes were wide open but showed no recognition. 
When Paul lifted up his arm it fell like a stick of wood 
back to the floor. 

He took the key out of Walker’s pocket, placed Walker 
as comfortably as he could on the floor, put one of the 
Morris chair cushions under his head and then hurried 


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235 


down to the office to call a doctor. In a few words he 
told the night secretary what had happened and he went 
up to the room with Paul. Walker lay in the same posi- 
tion. Apparently he had not stirred. His eyes were still 
open, but showed no signs of intelligence. 

When the doctor came he announced the trouble to 
be a paralytic shock. He had known Walker and spoke of 
treating hi in once for a slight attack of apoplexy. Paul, 
in answer to the doctor’s questions, did not think it 
necessary to tell of the reason for Walker’s presence in 
his room. He simply said that Walker had come up to 
see him and had not been five minutes in the room when 
he had fallen. 

An ambulance was summoned and Walker was taken 
to his house. Paul was not questioned any more, as it 
seemed a natural thing for Walker to call on Paul be- 
cause of Paul’s connection with the Gazette. 

The next day Paul went before the Grand Jury and 
gave his testimony. This involved Walker and half a 
dozen other men. When Paul came out of the Jury 
room after a most searching cross examination, he had 
to pass the gauntlet of newspaper men and others curious 
to know his statements. He was under oath to keep 
silence until the Jury returned its bill, and said nothing 
in answer to countless questions. 

“It’s no use, boys. You don’t get a word of a story 
from me.” 

He could not help noticing on the streets the threaten- 
ing looks of more than one man who knew him and 
knew where he had been. As he neared the Gazette 
office a great crowd had gathered about the bulletin board. 
He stopped, gravely startled at the first head lines. “J. W. 


236 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


Walker of the Gazette dies of apoplexy at his home.” 

So one of the guilty had gone to appear before a 
higher tribunal than man’s. 

Paul was shocked at the sudden death under the cir- 
cumstances. He had not intended to reveal the fact of 
Walker’s attack on himself. Now he felt that it was 
necessary to explain everything. He found the doctor 
who had attended Walker and gave him all the partic- 
ulars. In the time that followed, all the story became 
public and Paul was fully exonerated from any blame 
in the matter and in fact there was not at any time in 
Milton any feeling against Paul except on the part of 
those who had been reported by him to the Grand Jury. 
A growing shame over the riot and its consequences 
marked the feeling of the better part of Milton and in 
after days Paul’s stand gained him the respect of many in- 
fluential citizens. But feeling was bitter against the “nig- 
gers,” and when the Grand Jury was done with its work 
very little resulted from it. There were a few convic- 
tions of minor offenders. The prominent citizens es- 
caped. And the Gazette in an editorial even went so 
far as to accuse Paul of perjury in an attempt to gain 
notoriety. Paul read the attack, recalled Grange’s at- 
tempt to bribe him, and he was at first strongly tempted 
to make the story public. But he finally resolved to say 
nothing and the public ignored the Gazette’s insinuation, 
knowing it was one of those cases where prejudice 
spoke. 

The day after Walker’s death Mrs. Darcy sent for 
Paul. He went at once up to the house and the moment 
he entered he found Mrs. Darcy in tears. 

“Louis has gone! I don’t know where. He has not 


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237 


left any word. Mr. Darcy is very angry with him about 
something. He refuses to tell me what it is. I sent 
word to you yesterday but you were not at the Y. M. 
C. A. Oh, Paul, what do you think has become of 
Louis? I had hoped he was settled down to steady 
habits. His trip abroad with you did him so much good.” 

Paul told the poor lady Louis’ story of his engage- 
ment. Mrs. Darcy gasped with mingled astonishment 
and anger. Her fear for Louis’ safety was changed 
into reproach. 

“That girl! She probably carried out her threat and 
told Mr. Darcy the secret. And Louis has not dared 
to face his father. But what can he do? To my knowl- 
edge he has no money. Or at least only a few dollars. 
He does not know how to do a thing with his hands to 
earn anything. I find he has taken one of the traveling 
bags and put a few clothes into it.” 

Mrs. Darcy wrung her hands and refused to be com- 
forted. Paul said all he could to cheer her up, but did 
not succeed. And he went away without much hope 
for Louis’ future and with a growing depression over 
his own. 

He had been in his room half an hour when he had 
a telephone message from Mr. Randall asking him to 
come to the house for tea and on important business. 
He accepted and after Randall had pulled him into his 
den, in his usual impetuous fashion, he shut the door, 
offered Paul a cigar, which Paul declined, and then said, 

“I admire your nerve in this Grand Jury business. 
I wouldn’t undertake a thing like that. How do you 
know but I was one of the rioters myself? It’s rum 
times we live in anyhow. Well, well, young man, let’s 


238 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


come to business. George is off the track again and I 
want you to get him on again. ‘Off again, on again, 
you know. That scamp Louis has lit out and George has 
heard of it. He’s got the wander lust again. I want 
you to take him abroad, London, Edinburgh, Paris, — any- 
where. I’ll trust you to take care of him anywhere. 
Will you? That’s my proposition. I foot all bills and 
pay for all damage.” 

Paul gravely considered the offer for a minute and 
then accepted it. He told Randall something of the 
experience with Grange, leaving out the bribery incident, 
and Randall nodded. 

“Oh! Grange! Nothing but a money bag with a pro- 
tuberance he calls brains. You are well rid of him. 
Well, I’m glad you’re foot-loose to go. When can you 
start ?” 

Paul considered. “Any time. There is nothing to 
keep me here.” 

“Umph ! Good time for you to go, before another 
fellow like Walker gets after you. I think Mrs. Randall 
can get George ready by day after tomorrow. I’ll wire 
my agent in New York to engage passage. Mrs. Randall 
wants to see you before you go.” 

Paul had a talk with Mrs. Randall and George that 
evening. The boy was glad to go again with Paul. Mrs. 
Randall, who had done her best to spoil George and had 
fairly succeeded, laid many injunctions on Paul relative 
to George’s diet and general coddling. Paul listened 
respectfully and made some reservations. Randall sum- 
med up his wife’s anxious instructions by saying as Paul 
went away, 

“That’s right. Use your own judgment with George. 


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239 


Lick him every morning if you think he needs it, and 
oftener. I’ll pay the bills.” 

Paul made his preparations quickly. Before leaving he 
telephoned to Mrs. Darcy and told her his plans and the 
name of his steamer. Mrs. Randall could not get George 
ready on the day set and so they were late in arriving in 
New York, but were just in time to get the boat in which 
Mr. Randall had secured berths. 

There was the usual scene at the hour of departure. 
The dock was a mass of gesturing, shouting, tearful 
humanity. After the vessel began to swing out from its 
slip, Paul went down to secure his table seats. By the 
time they were assigned, the vessel was well out of the 
harbor. He thought there was a bare chance that he 
might have a letter and as he went by the Post Office he 
inquired and, to his surprise, three letters were handed 
him. One of them he saw at once was from Mrs. Darcy, 
one from Esther, and one from an unknown writer. 

He wanted to read Esther’s letter alone and told 
George to go up on deck where their steamer chairs were 
and wait for him there. He hurried into the library 
and started over to a cozy corner, opening Esther’s letter 
as he walked along. As he sat down he glanced through 
one of the windows that opened on the promenade deck 
and there, leaning against the rail, was Louis. He ut- 
tered Louis’ name and the boy turned and looked through 
the window at him. 


240 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Paul’s look of astonishment was not reflected in Louis’ 
face. After a moment of silence Paul managed to say, 
“How on earth do you happen to be here, Louis ?” 

“I’ll come in and tell you.” 

Louis appeared a minute later and sat down near 
Paul with an expression and manner half defiant, half 
appealing. 

“I left Milton as soon as I learned that Ada had told 
father of our engagement. I knew that meant either the 
News office or something worse for me. I just got 
desperate and didn’t care which way I went. I tried to 
get George to go with me, but he said his father was 
planning to get you to take him over the pond again. 
Then I thought I would go to New York, hoping in 
some way I could see you before you sailed. I learned 
what boat you were going on and I’ve been hiding here 
ever since they let visitors on board. When the order 
was given for all visitors to go ashore I didn’t go, that’s 
all. You can throw me overboard if you wish to, but 
I’ll never go back home again. I’d rather face a — a — lion 
than meet Ada again.” 

“Have you got a berth here?” 

“No, of course not. I only had money enough to get 
to New York.” 

“Do you mean to say that you have purposely let 
yourself become a passenger on the boat without the 
means to pay your passage?” 


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241 


Louis quailed, for Paul was really angry and did not 
disguise the fact. 

“I hadn’t any money and I couldn’t get any.” 

“Do you expect me to pay your passage?” 

“I don’t care what you do,” replied Louis desperately. 
“I’ll never go home, no matter what you do.” 

Paul looked out of the window. The vessel was long 
past the statue of Liberty. The engines were half speed 
and the course was well down the bay. The New York 
city shore line was dim and vague in the distance. The 
treatment of stowaways by the company was severe. 
Paul could compel Louis to leave when the pilot went, 
and he was vexed enough with Louis to threaten him 
with that course. 

“All right. I’ll go if you make me. But I’ll never 
go back home. There’s no one there cares for me.” 

Paul eyed the boy in disgust. Then his feeling slowly 
changed to compassion. Louis was wretched looking. 
A sentence in Esther’s letter recurred to him. “Do what 
you can for Louis, won’t you?” For Esther’s sake Paul 
would do what he would not do for Louis himself. 

Louis looked at Paul furtively. 

“If you’ll only take me along I’ll promise anything. 
I’ll not be any trouble. I’ll earn my board at any thing 
you say. I’ll ” 

“Louis,” said Paul more kindly than he had yet spoken, 
“you are making a lot of trouble all around for a num- 
ber of people. As far as your passage is concerned, of 
course I can pay it, but I have no means to pay your 
expenses in London or cn the continent. What you 
ought to do is to go back with the pilot, and then go 
right home, make a full confession to your father and 


242 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


mother and start in with your school again. I’ll give 
you money enough to get home and I’ll lend you enough 
in addition to pay any moderate debts you have incurred.” 

“It’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Douglas, but it’s no 
use for me to go home. Father nags me all the time. 
After this he won’t listen to anything. I hate school and 
I don’t appear to be of any use for anything else. Wal- 
ter’s better to me than he used to be, but he’s so much 
older than me that he hasn’t any patience. Mother fusses 
over me just as father nags me all the time. No one 
ever did anything for me really but you, and I want to 
be with you and George. Oh, let me go with you, ML 
Douglas. I’ll do anything!” 

Louis’ appeal shook Paul’s determination. And then 
the boy did a thing that reminded him of Esther. He 
laid his head down on his arms folding them on the 
little writing table in the corner of the library. Louis 
had curly brown hair just the color of Esther’s and the 
shape of his head was curiously like his sister’s. Looking 
at him now Paul’s heart softened to him on her account. 
He hungered that moment for a sight of his sweetheart 
and with a gesture which Louis could not see he put out 
his hand and stroked the boy’s hair. 

“Louis, it’s against my judgment and I don’t know 
what your folks will do about it. But I will take the 
responsibility on myself of letting you go with us to 
London. Then we shall have to decide what else to do.*’ 

Louis looked up and brushed tears away with his hand. 

“I won’t forget. I will do anything if you’ll keep me 
with you.” 

“Well,” said Paul gravely, “go out and stay with 
George while I see the purser and send a message to 


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243 


Milton. The folks there ought to know where you are.” 

Louis went out and Paul went to the purser’s office. 
He explained the matter to that important officer and 
settled for Louis’ transportation, putting him in with 
George and later on by an exchange of seats providing 
a place at table where the three of them could be to- 
gether. Paul then sent a brief wireless message ad- 
dressed to Milton telling Mr. Darcy that Louis was on 
the vessel. 

By the time these matters had been attended to it was 
the middle of the afternoon, and Paul had not yet read 
his letters. He left Louis and George to get on together 
on deck while he sought out a corner in the library and 
opened Esther’s letter first. It was a reply to the letter 
Louis had mailed so accommodatingly for Paul. 

“I was very much surprised to get the letter, Paul, 
and I suppose it means that father has given his consent, 
although you did not mention that fact or even tell me a 
word of news about anything that has happened since 
I left home. You are very absent-minded, Paul, and I 
suppose that accounts for many things. 

“Mother has just written me of Mr. Randall’s offer 
to you to go abroad again with George. Oh, how I wish 
Louis could go with you too. Mother has worried so 
over that boy she will be sick again. She writes me that 
he has disappeared. If in any way it should happen that 
you find him or he comes to you, be kind to him for my 
sake. He almost worships you and when a boy does that 
it means more than almost any kind of love. I can’t 
help a feeling of depression for Louis. I seem to dread 
the next news we get of him as if he might never come 
home alive. 


244 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“You will be a good many miles from Milton. You 
must write me good long letters. Be careful of your 
health. Don’t eat too many meat pies. And if you 
happen to think of it in your next letter, tell me how 
father came to change his mind. Mother does not write 
any news. She is entirely taken up with Louis. I am 
studying hard on my music and my teacher is good 
enough to say I am doing very well.” 

The second letter, the one from Mrs. Darcy, was 
almost entirely taken up with an agitated discussion of 
Louis. Mrs. Darcy implored Paul to do everything he 
could in case Louis should write or come to him. 

“I do not know any one he thinks more of than of you. 
Mr. Darcy has no influence over him and I have very 
little. I shudder to think of what he may be suffering 
even now as I write. In my letter to Esther telling her 
of Louis’ running away I also told her of your plans. 
Mr. Darcy has said nothing of his views of matters 
since ^ou left the Gazette. He has been altogether ab- 
sorbed in the race quarrel since the dreadful events of 
the riot. What a blessing it would be if all the blacks 
would leave Milton. They are a great source of peril 
to us all the time. The saloons have been allowed to 
resume business and we are fearing another outbreak. 
A committee of citizens today visited the leaders of the 
blacks who remain and strongly urged them to leave 
Milton, urging upon them the danger of another attack 
on them if they did not go. 

“I hope you will greatly enjoy your trip and that Mr. 
Darcy will soon change his mind about you and Esther. 
You have my best wishes.” 

The third letter was anonymous. It was not the first 


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245 

letter of the kind Paul had received, but it troubled him. 

There was no date on the letter itself but the post- 
mark on the envelope gave the day he had left Milton. 
His departure had been noted in the papers and the name 
of the steamer by which he was sailing, so his cor- 
respondent had secured his address. The letter was 
brief and began without any heading. 

“You have taken it on yourself to interfere with sev- 
eral citizens who were present at the little disturbance 
of recent date in Milton. One of these citizens hereby 
serves notice on you that if you ever come back to 
Milton there will be something coming to you that will 
possibly be of painful interest to you. If you value your 
health better stay away from Milton for good.” 

Paul read it over slowly twice and then tore it into 
bits and dropped them into the waste paper basket. 

He sat in the corner of the room thinking over his 
letters for some time and then went out on deck to hunt 
up the boys. He found them enjoying the view from the 
promenade deck, Louis much subdued in his manner, 
but George almost overcome with the thought of having 
Louis for a traveling companion again. 

During the voyage Paul took his two charges in hand 
vigorously. He curbed George’s appetite which was 
something abnormal and insisted on long walks between 
meals. He also had lively talks with the boys over the 
proposed program when London was reached. 

One afternoon as they were sitting in the steamer 
chairs talking over matters, Louis suddenly asked Paul, 

“Are the Americans popular in England now?” 

“Yes, more so than ever.” 


246 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“Do tliey patronize the American business firms in 
London ?” 

Paul stared at Louis, not knowing what he was asking 
the question for. 

“Yes, don't you remember that shoe store on Southamp- 
ton Row, where' the American flag hung out over the 
door? There was always a crowd in there. ,, 

“Yes, I remember,” Louis said, and then he suddenly 
subsided into silence and unusual thoughtfulness. 

The voyage was without any special incident. They 
reached Liverpool Saturday night and started up to Lon- 
don by the evening express. 

Randall's instructions had been very plain. “Use your 
judgment about expenses, but I trust you not to be 
extravagant in any way. Give George a taste of the 
simple life. Go to the Thackeray, opposite the British 
Museum for a month if you like. It’s a neat, temperance 
hotel. You’ll be lucky if you get in. But be comfortable 
somewhere. I’ll pay the bills.” 

Paul had no idea of going to the Thackeray, but when 
they reached the great city it was very near Sunday 
morning. So he determined to hunt up the old lodgings 
in Torrington Square the first of the week and spend 
Sunday at the Thackeray. There were two comfortable 
rooms at the rear annex that he managed to secure, and 
the boys were soon sound asleep and Paul followed their 
example shortly, conscious of an unusual roar of traffic 
even for the huge animal called London. 

He was wakened by unusual noise for a Sunday 
morning in London, and learned when he came down to 
breakfast that the Brewers and Liquor Trade had or- 
ganized and were carrying out a monster parade which 


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was to finish in a grand meeting in Hyde Park to remon- 
strate against the iniquity of the new Licensing Bill 
which the liberal government had just put forth as a 
measure to make a beginning of the end of the Liquor 
Trade in Great Britain. 

Paul had managed to secure a copy of this bill two 
weeks before leaving Milton. He had carefully studied 
it during the passage from New York to Liverpool and 
was intensely interested in it. The bill, if it became 
law, would allow the people to vote on the question of 
license or no license and in the end would no doubt 
lead to the prohibition of the public house for the whole 
nation. 

This was the reason for the stirring of the Brewing 
interests this particular morning. All night and all of 
Sunday forenooon immense crowds poured into the city 
from Kings Cross, Euston Road, Paddington, Liverpool 
street, Charing Cross and Waverly. Free tickets had 
been given to thousands and free beer was served out 
at all the public houses all day. Every street leading 
to Hyde Park was choked long before noon. Paul and 
the boys managed to get inside Hyde Park a little after 
two o’clock. The outpouring was a thing that no other 
city but London could equal. Thousands of banners and 
advertisements were held aloft, over the mass of human- 
ity that was so dense as to cover every foot of ground 
and grass. 

“Be Free and Drink Glorious Beer.” 

“Down With All Fanatics.” 

“Personal Liberty is the Crown Jewel of Civilization.” 

“The Bill is Robbery.” 

These were a few of the tossing, heaving banners 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


which imitated in their gyrating, wobbly antics the 
motions of the men who carried them and most of whom 
were gloriously reeling drunk from the glorious and 
otherwise beer and brandy they had been consuming 
since daylight. There were gigantic platforms planted 
all over the Park where uproarious speakers addressed 
the crowds and took their votes against the bill holding 
up the words “Yes or No?” Invariably the “No” had it, 
in a torrent of hoarse and whiskey-loaded breath. The 
scene was indescribable near the end of the afternoon, 
and for two hours Paul and the boys were absolutely 
unable to leave the Park. They were as helpless to stir 
out of the crowd as if they had been surrounded by a 
steel chain. Paul feared for their safety, but was glad 
on the whole to have Louis and George get a sight of 
the demonstration which was without parallel in their 
experiences. Towards five o’clock those on the edge of 
the Park began to move back into the city, the pressure 
was released from the center and streaming masses 
surged outward in all directions but with one common 
impulse — to get a drink at the nearest public house. The 
next day Paul overheard in the parlor of the Thackeray 
a man whom he afterwards learned was a prominent 
member of Parliament express himself to a colleague 
in this fashion over the gathering of the trade the day 
before. 

“Beer sodden men, publicans, tapsters, draymen and 
their customers, beery rotundies, bloated faces, and 
red noses and grog blossoms of every variety displayed 
with all the glory of bands, banners, grand marshals, 
marshals and submarshals, — a formidable array of alco- 
holists parading in the sacred names of liberty and hon- 


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esty ! Good heavens ! What an army of monopoly, and 
misery, and debased humanity! I was profoundly im- 
pressed with the necessity of speedily reducing and van- 
quishing the forces of trade in the best interests of the 
community.” This from a man who had been cold and 
critical towards the bill when it first appeared. 

The fact also that the Brewers had used Sunday for 
their excursion trains and had desecrated the worshiping 
hours of the day with their shouts and drunkenness in- 
censed a large part of the conservative citizens of Lon- 
don, even those who had large shares in Brewers script, 
and many of them vowed to use their influence in favor 
of the Bill. It is not safe for any vice of mankind to 
make a public demonstration of its results on humanity. 
The effect is not reassuring to those who even outwardly 
respect decency and sobriety. 

Three days later Paul received a letter from Mr. 
Darcy. He had been expecting something and on the 
whole he was not disappointed with Darcy’s attitude. He 
wrote first about Louis. 

“The boy has just about reached the limit with me. 
I enclose money enough to pay for his passage and 
enough more to keep him going with you for a month. 
If at the end of that time he has not found some job to 
make himself self supporting I authorize you to send 
him back to New York. I will be there to meet him and 
I will see that he goes into the News. I am not going 
to stand for more of his foolishness. He is eighteen 
years old. When I was his age I was supporting myself, 
and if he cannot do the same then you may send him 
home and I will put him to work. If he finds anything to 
do I am willing to have him stay near you. He seems to 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


think a good deal of you and your influence over him 
is all right. But lay the rule down to him. If he is not 
at work taking care of himself inside a month, send him 
home without delay. 

“Now a word as to you and Esther. As long as you 
were with the Gazette I could not countenance your 
engagement. Now that you have broken with Grange 
I am ready to give my consent, but I am not willing that 
Esther be married for at least a year. You are not able 
to support her. 

“Mrs. Darcy and I appreciate what you have done for 
Louis. I have of course no idea that he will be able to 
get any work and at the end of the month you will be 
free from the care of him. What he needs is to be 
compelled to get down to the business end of life and 
work as I had to when I was a boy. I ought to have put 
him into the News long ago.” 

Paul read to Louis his father’s determination about 
him. Louis listened very gravely but, to Paul’s surprise, 
without any outburst of any kind. He seemed very 
grave and thoughtful. 

“Mr. Douglas, does father expect me to set myself 
up in business in a city like London without any capital?” 

“Capital !” 

“Yes. Suppose I want to get started in something. 
What can I do? I haven’t a cent.” 

Paul stared at him and then laughed. 

“What are you thinking of buying, the Cecil Hotel, or 
the cab privileges?” 

“Laugh if you want to,” Louis said doggedly. “I need 
a little money to get started.” 

“How much?” 


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“Ten dollars at least.” 

‘Til lend him that,” said George, pulling out a fat 
purse containing his allowance of spending money. 
George was exceedingly anxious to have Louis stay. 

“Put your money up, George,” said Paul. “If Louis 
needs the money I’ll let him have it. But what can you 
do with it?” 

“Do I have to tell? Mr. Douglas, don’t you want me 
to get any work to do?” asked Louis in a hurt tone of 
voice. 

“Of course I do, but you can’t blame me for being 
a little doubtful about it. I supposed you would want 
me to go around and hunt for a job for you in some 
office or shop. And the wages are ridiculous. You 
couldn’t live on them.” 

“No,” said Louis with an eagerness that astonished 
Paul; “let me find my own work. If I succeed I’ll let 
you know. And if you lend me the ten dollars I’ll pay 
you back. And do we need to stay in this hotel? Can’t 
we hunt up our old rooms and save a good deal ?” 

“Sure,” said Paul cheerfully, feeling as if the mil- 
lennium had dawned to hear Louis in this new role of 
economy. “We can save four pounds a week by not 
staying here.” 

“The grub isn’t as good over there as it is here,” said 
George sorrowfully. 

“It’s good enough,” replied Paul. “George, I’m going 
to put you in training. You are too big to board.” 

George was unusually heavy for his age, a boy who 
was beginning to wonder at himself with some awakening 
dismay but with an appetite he had hard work to curb. 

“Oh, I’ll go all right. But they’ll have to get some 


252 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


better chairs for our room. I don’t want to always have 
to sit on the bed.” 

Paul and Louis both roared at the memory of the 
chairs George had wrecked in Torrington square. He 
used to tilt back against the wall and then twist his legs 
around the front of the chair, swinging from side to 
side as he studied, with the result that when the lesson 
was over the chair was generally ready for the hospital. 

Next day Paul went around to the old lodging place 
and secured the same rooms. By night the three trav- 
ellers were settled and felt much more at home than in 
the hotel. 

The next few days Louis spent hunting for his job. 
Every night he came back to the rooms evidently tired 
and very grave, but, to Paul’s astonishment, not gloom} 
or irascible. Paul made up his mind to let Louis work 
out his own salvation, secure his own work and learn 
to take care of himself. He had advanced the ten dollars 
and in his heart had doubts of ever seeing it again, but 
Louis’ new determination gave him a little hope. 

Three weeks after the receipt of Darcy’s letter and its 
ultimatum, Louis came in late with a look of satisfaction. 

“Mr. Douglas, I won’t be in tomorrow night until 
pretty late. And I’ll have to be gone all day.” 

“Good for you.” Paul was delighted. 

“What you got?” asked George. “Chauffeur for King 
Edward? I wouldn’t mind a job like that. All you 
have to do is to toot your horn and everybody gives a 
clear road and takes his hat off. I saw the King in 
his auto the other day and everybody for a mile around 
had his hat off but the chauffeur. He kept his on. That 
would suit me.” 


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Louis refused to tell what his job was. He was like 
a child in his pleasure. At the same time he seemed a 
little anxious. 

“If I make anything I’ll settle after a week,” was all 
he said as he went off immediately after breakfast. 

At the end of a week, to Paul’s unbounded astonish- 
ment, Louis laid down on the table a pile of shillings, 
sixpences and pennies. This was just before bedtime. 

“Count it,” was all Louis said, but he was trembling 
with excitement, and George, who had never earned a 
cent of his own in his life except when they ran away 
and worked for the theater company, hovered over the 
counting in a fit of suspense that threatened to burst 
into a howl as soon as the result was announced. 

“Three pounds, six shillings and seven pence. You 
don’t mean to say you have cleared all that in a week!” 

“No, but you can take your two pounds out of it and 
that leaves six dollars,” said Louis, who was, always 
mixing up money terms in counting. 

“Do you mean to say that you earned all that? 
At what?” 

“I don’t mind letting you know.- It’s good honest 
work,” Louis went on with an embarrassed look. “Don’t 
laugh at me, will you?” 

“No,” Paul felt more like crying if Louis had really 
accomplished the miracle of self support. 

“Do you know where the little booth is in front of the 
Charing Cross station? Where foreign bills and money 
are exchanged?” 

Paul nodded. 

“Well, you go in at the farthest gate south, right past 


254 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


the booth, until you see an American flag. And then 
you stop in front of my place of business.” 

That was all Louis would say. He went off very 
early the next morning and Paul and George walked 
down to the Strand later on and with much curiosity 
followed Louis’ directions. 

When they entered the south gateway they saw the 
flag a few feet past the first tiny shop. And there in a 
recess in the wall not more than big enough to turn 
around in was Louis busily shaking a big popper over a 
small gasoline stove. Over the arch of the entrance to 
this hole in the wall was a neat sign, “American Hot 
Buttered Pop Corn and Roasted Peanuts.” 

George nearly fell down in a fit at the sight. Paul 
was simply dazed. It was the last thing in the world he 
had ever dreamed of in connection with Louis. It was 
so contrary to everything in Louis’ character that he 
could not understand. But talking with him about it 
late that same evening Paul came to know more fully 
Louis’ transformation. 

“I remembered what you said on the steamer about 
the popularity of Americans in London. Then I re- 
membered old Amber, who used to drive the little cart 
around the High School and make piles of money selling 
hot popcorn. I found in an old junk shop on Baker 
street a second-hand stove and popper and then I hunted 
for a week before I could find any popcorn, but at last 
I stumbled on a sack of it in a New Bedford sloop cap- 
tain’s barge at Battersea. Then I hunted for a place to 
set up my stove and it was by merest chance I seemed 
to get it. The shop next the entrance is leased by an 
old gentleman whose son married a girl in Albany, and 


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I saw this recess in the wall one day when I had just 
about given up hunting for a place and went in to in- 
quire. The old man listened to me all right when he 
saw I was American and he lets me have the rental for 
two pounds ten a month, that is $12.50. It’s only a third 
what the place is worth he said/’ 

Paul had listened with amazement. George, who had 
that morning purchased six bags of popcorn and as 
many of peanuts, sat looking at Louis open mouthed in 
admiration. 

“I wish I was one of the dignified merchants of 
London. How does it feel?” 

“I don’t believe I could do such a thing at home, Mr. 
Douglas. But you know what I said. I cannot go home 
and go into the newspapers. I’m not good for school. 
But somehow I feel pretty good over my business. I 
can support myself at it anyhow.” 

Paul’s wonder over all this was lessened some time 
afterward when he learned that most of the Darcys had 
been business men for generations back. Somewhere 
Louis touched the money making habit of commercial 
life. And away from home, in a big city, facing his 
father’s conditions, longing to be near Douglas and 
George, he was possessed with a desperate desire to meet 
the conditions. As a matter of fact he could not have 
hit on a better business for his limited capital and inex- 
perience. He was in the heart of the traveling London 
world. Crowds of people saw the little United States 
flag. The Britishers were slow at first to patronize a 
new and comparatively unknown article of food, but 
before three months were gone Louis had all he could 
do. George was delighted to help him out. And it is 


256 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


doubtful if in the whole of London at that time there 
were two happier or more contented youths than these 
two. 

Paul insisted that Louis should go on with some 
studies, pursuing two of the courses which George was 
taking. And by closing up his place of business on Wed- 
nesday and Saturday nights he found time for a some- 
what reluctant pursuit of literature and history. 

Six months in London went swiftly by. During this 
time Paul kept up a lively correspondence with Esther 
and gradually regained Darcy’s confidence and favor. 
But Paul was not altogether happy in his thought of 
the future because when George’s tutoring was at an 
end there was no prospect of newspaper work in Milton, 
and he dreaded the thought of leaving and trying to 
make a beginning in New York or at a distance from 
Esther. 

But the two boys kept him busy and he had little 
leisure to despond or dwell on future happenings. Louis 
had more than one blue day. The business was con- 
fining, and he was naturally indolent. It was only by a 
combination of circumstances that he held himself to- 
gether. He had stopped the cigarettes and Paul had 
put both boys on a systematic course of exercise and 
diet. 

It was at this time that George developed in a way 
to surprise Paul almost as much as Louis had by taking 
to business. 

One Saturday night Paul took the boys to the Hip- 
podrome to see Sandow. They sat spellbound, looking 
at his feats of strength. When they returned to their 
rooms George tried to imitate the strong man by lifting 


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Louis in a chair, using one hand gripped about the 
lower rung. He succeeded in tipping the chair over and 
landing on top of Louis and the chair, which was smashed 
almost flat under the impact. 

Louis extricated himself with a howl and started to 
belabor George with the broken chair back. Paul was 
laughing so hard he had some difficulty in pulling the 
belligerents apart. But in the details of the incident 
one fact had not escaped him. George, in spite of his 
failure to perform this particular feat, was, Paul noted, 
developing into a youth of unusual strength. George 
himself was crestfallen over his failure. 

“Let me try it again, Mr. Douglas. I can do it. My 
foot slipped.” 

“Not on me, you don’t,” said Louis, rubbing his head 
which had struck on a corner of the bedstead when the 
chair went over. 

“You sit in a chair, Mr. Douglas. I know I can do 
it,” said George earnestly. 

“Will you pay for the chair?” 

“Yes, and I’ll pay all the doctor’s bills besides.” 

Paul took his seat and George asked him to sit steady. 
George gripped the rung. Louis sat on the bed and 
jeered loudly. But at last George succeeded in getting 
the right hold and to Paul’s surprise actually did lift him 
off the floor and hold him up several inches for two 
seconds. When the chair came down, George was red 
and triumphant. 

“I knew I could do it,” he said, looking at Louis. 
“Maybe I can get a job as assistant to Mr. Sandow.” 

Paul acted on this incident in a practical way. He took 
George into the Y. M. C. A. gymnasium on Tottenham 


258 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


Court Road. The trainer measured George and was 
enthusiastic over the result. The boy was crude and 
awkward and overgrown, but he had the promise, the 
trainer said, of developing into a most unusual physique. 
All this had a bearing on George’s future and Paul took 
it into account because it led to events which profoundly 
affected the boy’s future. 

At the end of a year’s absence from home, Paul was 
called back to Milton by urgent letters from Mr. Randall. 
Mrs. Randall was seriously ill again. She was homesick 
to see George. Paul made his preparation to sail on the 
next steamer. Louis at first declared he would not go 
with them. Paul, however, persuaded him that some 
business opening would be possible for him in Milton. 
So the little American popcorn and peanut business was 
disposed of quite successfully to the proprietor of the 
shop at the Charing Cross entrance and Paul and the 
boys sailed from Southampton and landed in New York 
a week later. 

All the way over Paul could not help growing more 
and more thoughtful about his own future. He was 
without any definite prospects and his union with Esther 
seemed a long way off. He prayed earnestly for light 
and found much peace in his thought of his Christian 
purpose. On this voyage also his mother’s words and 
the atmosphere of her devotion to her Master seemed to 
envelop Paul to an unusual degree. 

When the train reached Milton and the three travelers 
got out they were met by Mr. and Mrs. Darcy and Wal- 
ter, and Mr. Randall. To Paul’s great disappointment 
Esther was not present. Her school term at Ashbury 
was not quite over. Paul had not been expected home 


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so soon and she had not made her plans to leave the 
school. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy insisted on Paul’s coming 
to stay with them until his plans were made. He hesi- 
tated over this for a while but finally accepted. It 
pleased him to find Mr. Darcy so genial and friendly. 
He had left some of his things stored in his room at the 
Y. M. C. A. and after supper at the Darcys and a brief 
visit with them, he said he was going over to the Asso- 
ciation especially to see the secretary, who had learned 
of his arrival and wanted very much to confer with him 
about a matter of great importance. He was so eager 
himself to get to work at something that he excused 
himself, promising to return before ten o’clock. At 
half past ten, Walter, recalling Paul’s absent-mindedness, 
at Mrs. Darcy’s request telephoned to the Y. M. C. A. 
to remind Paul that he was to spend the night at the 
Darcys and not in his old quarters. 

Word came back from the secretary that Paul had not 
been there. Then Walter grew uneasy and went out. 
He called at the Y. M. C. A., but the secretary could give 
him no clue. Paul had not been into the building to his 
knowledge. It was midnight when Walter came out. 
Where could Paul be? In a growing fear he asked the 
question, but could not answer it. 


200 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Six weeks after that first night of his return to Milton, 
Paul Douglas, alive as by a miracle, lay in a bedroom at 
the Darcys where he had been under a doctor’s and 
nurse’s care day and night and gave the first connected 
account he had been able to give of what had happened 
after leaving the Darcys to go to the Y. M. C. A. The 
family, including Esther, and Mr. Randall were present. 
Paul was under orders not to talk very long, but he was 
able to give his eager listeners a condensed statement. 

“I left the house here about eight thirty, I think, and 
I walked straight down High street to the avenue. Then 
I took the short cut through the alley back of the Asso- 
ciation Building. I have been in the habit of going that 
way when through with my night work at the office. 

“As near as I can remember it was about the middle 
of the alley at the rear of Cane’s warehouse that I heard 
a step back of me, and I turned part way around, when 
I felt a blow on my head. It stunned me but I did not 
fall until a second blow rendered me unconscious. 

“That’s all I can remember except I do have a dim 
recollection of hearing Walter’s voice sometime, either 
as I lay on the ground, or afterwards here at the house.” 

Walter interrupted. 

“After coming out of the Association office I went 
back again and asked the night secretary some questions. 
I felt very anxious. The secretary suggested that we 
call an officer and make a search. We did so and after 
half an hour’s time we found you lying in the middle 


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of the alley, your watch gone and your pockets picked. 
I thought you were dead.” 

“Pm not, though,” said Paul with a smile at Esther. 
“I have too much to live for. And I take a deal of 
killing.” 

“You certainly do,” said Randall, with a look of ad- 
miration. “My, but you had a crack on the head, young 
man. It is lucky for you your skull is thick.” 

“But why should any one want to kill my Paul,” Esther 
asked as she gazed at Paul like one risen from the dead. 

“His watch and money were gone,” Mrs. Darcy said. 
“Mr. Darcy claims it was a hold up and charges the 
niggers with it.” 

“I don’t think that was it, Madam,” Mr. Randall said 
shortly, “Mr. Douglas has no enemies among the colored 
people of Milton.” 

“What enemies can he have anywhere?” 

“You forget the riot and Paul’s part as a witness.” 

“But that is all passed. Who would want to injure 
Paul now?” 

“Wait, I remember,” Paul spoke slowly. “I had a 
threatening letter which warned me not to come back 
here. I paid little attention to it.” 

“I get plenty of anonymous letters threatening to blow 
me up if I don’t leave a bag of money at certain places,” 
said Randall. “I never pay any attention except to send 
a dummy bag and a detective to the spot. It’s lots of 
fun to be rich in the United States, I tell you. But I’m 
convinced, Douglas, that the assault made on you in this 
cowardly fashion from behind could be traced to the 
writer of that letter.” 

“Maybe it could,” said Paul calmly. “But what’s the 
use of worrying over it? I’m not killed yet, and I’m not 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


charging anybody with the affair. Help me to forget it.” 

Mr. Randall rose to go. But he walked up to the side 
of the bed and laid a package down on it within reach of 
Paul’s hand. 

“I’m sorry to do anything to help you remember this 
incident, but Mrs. Randall and myself feel so grateful 
for what you have done for George that we want to 
express our feelings in some practical way. When you 
get around again we would be exceedingly glad if you 
could take George in hand again and I’ll pay all the bills.” 

Mr. Randall went out abruptly before Paul could begin 
to thank him. 

“Open it, will you, Esther?” 

Esther opened the package and took out of its satin- 
lined box a beautiful gold watch. It had Paul’s initials 
on it and he was much affected by the gift. 

“Every one is good to me,” he could not help saying 
as his lips trembled. 

“That’s because you are good to every one, my son,” 
Mrs. Darcy said, laying her hand on Paul’s affectionately. 
“We owe you so much for all you have done for Louis. 
That boy is a wonder. It seems like a miracle to me, 
what has happened to him.” 

Later in the day after Paul had rested and Esther 
was with him for a little while alone, Paul asked many 
questions and had a heart talk with Esther. He was 
eager to know many things and confided in Esther on 
their future plans. When he asked about Louis Esther 
laughed. 

“Louis calls himself one of the business men of Mil- 
ton. Father is nonplussed. The rest of us are dazed. 
You could never guess what he is doing.” 

“Tell me?” 


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263 


“He has opened a candy shop on High street. He 
makes most of the candy himself. And I must say it 
is good. And he says he is making money. Louis is 
a miracle.” 

“What about Ada?” 

“Oh, Ada is engaged again, I believe to one of the 
college boys. Louis will have nothing to do with society. 
He sticks to business. I hope it will last. But it’s all 
so queer we can’t get used to it.” 

Paul was still for a while admiring Esther’s looks. She 
had grown a little serious during her hard work at Ash- 
bury but Paul liked her restful, strong glance as it met his. 

“I must get strong and well as fast as I can so as to go 
to work for our home, dear.” 

“I’ll do anything I can to help. Oh, Paul, think if you 
had been taken from me !” Esther cried a little and then 
suddenly controlled herself. 

“Pm a man without a job, Esther. And I was never 
so anxious to do something. As much as I would like 
to stay here and let you be my nurse, I feel restless to 
be a bread winner. Now that your father is reconciled 
to it I long to be in our own home.” 

“So do I,” said Esther, her face glowing. “I won’t 
be an expensive luxury, will I ?” 

“Pm sure you won’t.” 

“I know how to make my own hats,” said Esther 
laughing. “I can save you quite an item, sir, on that 
part of the expense.” 

“That won’t be much, will it?” 

“Reveals your ignorance to say so, mister. What do 
you suppose that cost me when it was new ?” 

Esther held up one of her hats which had been lying 
on the table. 


264 


PAUL DOUGLAS : 


“I’ve no idea,” said Paul, looking at the object hope- 
lessly. 

“That creation when it was new last fall cost eight and 
a half.” 

“Cents ?” said Paul with great gravity. 

“Cents! Dollars! You couldn’t buy a blue print of 
it for eight cents and a half. And it is a modest little 
thing compared with most. Imogene Camden wears hats 
that cost $50 and thinks nothing of it.” 

“You don’t mean to say that a girl’s hat made of a 
few — , a few pieces of plush and cambric and artificial 
flowers and vegetables and chicken feathers can cost $50?” 

Paul got up on one elbow and gazed at Esther’s hat 
with a look so full of astonishment that Esther laughed 
until she cried. 

“You needn’t be afraid, Paul. I’ll never ask for a 
$50 hat. Pm ready to economize. I’ll never want more 
than the eight and a half variety. And I’ll go bareheaded 
rather than go in debt for anything.” 

Paul lay down again. 

“I want to confide something, dear. I feel as if we 
ought to talk over these money matters frankly : I can 
remember mother saying that she knew many unhappy 
marriages were due to a lack of confidence between hus- 
band and wife over money matters. I’m not going to 
run that risk. I am going to let you into all my secrets 
from the start.” 

“I’m sure I appreciate that,” Esther replied demurely. 
“Are you going to tell me that you are a nobleman in 
disguise and that I shall have to marry a rich man after 
falling in love with a poor man ?” 

“Hardly. There’s no danger of your marrying a rich 
man if you marry me. For as a matter of fact, Esther, 


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when I was robbed six weeks ago, practically my whole 
fortune was taken.” 

Esther was startled and her look expressed great 
concern. 

“You see when I left Milton I drew out half my bank 
deposit, thinking I might need it for emergencies. That 
left $150 in the bank. When I got back here, the day 
I was hurt, Mr. Randall wanted to settle up everything 
and after squaring all George’s expenses he generously 
added $100 over and above all my expenses. He gave me 
the money in new bills. It was after banking hours and 
so when I left the house here I had in my pocket over 
$400 in money. Of course I was going to deposit it next 
day. That is all gone. Unless the thief is caught and 
the money recovered my whole fortune consists of $150. 
That amount of money would only buy about seventeen 
and four-tenths hats at $8.50 apiece.” 

“Have you told any one else about this?” 

“No. Of course I shall tell the police about the new 
bills so they can be on the lookout !” 

“Why don’t you tell Mr. Randall, and ” 

‘He will probably find it out if the police make it 
public. But I don’t want to take my losses to him. He 
has favored me enough already. I’m sorry, my dear. 
I had thought that when I had a thousand dollars saved 
and was getting a fair salary I could tell your father 
we were ready to begin our home. Tell me Esther, 
truly. Do you feel that you must have everything to 
begin with that your father and mother have now ?” 

Esther had been standing by the table. She now went 
over by Paul and without a word at first she looked 
earnestly at him. When she spoke it was so frankly and 
affectionately that Paul Douglas never in all his life will 


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PAUL DOUGLAS : 


have occasion to doubt or question his wife’s depth of 
sincerity and honest simplicity of character. 

“Paul, do I look like a sensible girl?” 

“Sensible and lovely.” 

“No, don’t pay compliments now. I want you to 
understand fully. I heard Imogene say once that no 
young man need ask to marry her unless he was prepared 
to build and furnish an elegant house and supply it with 
every luxury. She demands as many luxuries to start 
her married life as her father and mother had necessities 
to begin theirs with. Paul, I regard that as wicked. 
Marriage cannot be based on those terms and be happy. 
I don’t want to think that my happiness is dependent 
on the number of things we have. I am not only willing 
but I want to begin our home in a simple way. Simple 
furniture, simple food, simple pleasures, plenty of good 
health, and a great luxury of faith in each other and love 
of each other, Paul. Paul, do you not understand! I 
love you , not an establishment. I want a home, not a 
furniture store to live in. Do you think Pm an old 
fashioned girl? Do you think Pm sensible?” 

“Sensible! I think I am blessed in the love of th$ 
most sensible and lovely girl in all the United States, 
That makes me all the more eager to do my part. I 
don’t want to offer you a share in a desperate struggle 
to maintain even a very modest beginning. I think any 
self respecting man ought to be able to offer a home to 
the woman who has entrusted herself to him. And I am 
going to be in a position to do it before we begin. God 
is good to me in giving me such a life as yours to share 
with mine.” 

After a while Esther said, “Paul, do you feel so much 


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attached to the newspaper work that you couldn’t do 
anything else if it were offered?” 

“No, of course not. I feel as if the newspaper was my 
choice, but I’m ready to do anything I can to make a 
living.” 

“Mr. Brooks, the Y. M. C. A. secretary, seems anxious 
to see you as soon as he can. He wants to propose some- 
thing. I don’t know just what it is.” 

“I was going to see him that night.” 

“The doctor says you can get out soon.” 

“I’ll see him the moment I am able. Or why could he 
not come here, Esther? When the doctor comes this 
afternoon I am going to ask him.” 

When the doctor came he gave his consent. And the 
next day Brooks came in to see Paul. 

The Y. M. C. A. secretary was energetic in the extreme 
and in a few sentences he laid his proposition before Paul. 

“I want you for the athletic secretary. I’ve noticed 
your good work with Louis and George, and every time 
you’ve been in the gym the fellows have taken to you.” 

Paul was entirely unprepared for such an offer. He 
thoughtfully considered. 

“George is a regular member now. And I want to tell 
you a secret. Mr. Randall is getting interested in the 
Association. I believe if you would consent to take this 
position Randall would do something handsome for us. 
We could offer you $75 a month to begin with and $100 
in less than a year’s time. Your influence over the boys 
will be immense. They know you and have great respect 
for you already. Maybe you don’t know it, but when you 
did the giant swing last holiday exhibition you simply 
got the heart of every boy in the house.” 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“But I’ve never had any training for the position,” said 
Paul modestly. 

“You have had enough to begin with the work. Of 
course it’s only once in a great while that the physical 
director could fit into the place without the regular train- 
ing for it. But you’re one of the few exceptions who 
can. At any rate we’re willing to give you a try. The 
Board of Directors is unanimous in its invitation. Come, 
Douglas, say you will accept.” 

Paul asked for a day to consider it, and Brooks went 
out feeling quite confident of Paul’s final answer. 

Paul counselled with Esther. 

“You see I’m shut out of the Gazette for good, and 
your father has made no offer to me to go back on the 
News. Besides there are the old whiskey ads and the 
rest of the patent medicine delusions.” 

“Oh dear, I wish father would see how sentiment is 
growing against those ads. Everybody else sees it. I’m 
sure he is losing the respect and sympathy of very many 
of his best subscribers. And he seems very much wor- 
ried lately. I’ve never known him to be so nervous.” 

“Well, I see no way of getting newspaper work in Mil- 
ton and I can’t bear to leave to hunt up work in some 
other town.” 

“No, don’t go, Paul,” said Esther shyly. “I can’t bear 
to have you go. Take this position in the Association. 
I am sure you can fill it splendidly.” 

So Paul sent word to Brooks, accepting the place on 
the terms offered and promising to begin his duties the 
minute the doctor gave him leave. 

Next day the papers printed the story of the appoint- 
ment. Darcy was generous enough to permit a half 
column write-up of Paul’s ability. Two days after, both 


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the News and the Gazette published a story of a $10,000 
gift to the Association by Randall, half the amount to 
be applied on gymnasium equipment. Brooks was in 
fine spirit over the event. Paul grew eager to get to 
work at his new task and before the month was over 
he had organized his classes and was gradually working 
into a career which promised to mean for him and the 
crowd of boys and young men whom he met and drilled, 
a career of great usefulness and power. 

He persuaded Louis to join one of the night classes. 
George was already a regular member and working hard 
for a position on the foot ball team at the High School. 

Louis puzzled Paul a good deal. The boy had given up 
his cigarettes, he had stopped going into society, he 
seemed completely absorbed in his business. But he had 
no use for the Sunday-school or Church, never went 
to any religious gathering and seldom read anything but 
a newspaper. It was all Paul could do to get him to 
take a course in literature and keep up his exercise in 
the gymnasium. 

One day at the close of one of the classes Paul got 
Louis into his office and had a plain talk with him. As 
physical director he was beginning to find that he must 
be a confidant of the boys, and they in their turn were 
beginning to prize the personal talks they had with him. 
It was during these individual face to face talks that 
Paul began to realize where his greatest opportunity lay. 
The boys came to confide in him, as they did not confide 
even in their own parents. 

It was Paul’s habit to have one boy at a time and it 
was understood fully that the value of these conferences 
consisted in the plainest and frankest truth being spoken 
by each side. 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


“Louis, how are you getting on?” 

“Fine. I cleared nine dollars and seventy cents last 
week.” 

“How about the cigarettes?” 

“I’m done with them, Mr. Douglas. You know I 
haven’t touched one since London.” 

“Good. Don’t you feel better?” 

“Of course I do,” Louis answered carelessly. “It was 
a great expense.” 

“How about Ada?” 

Louis blushed. 

“She’s nothing to me any more. She cost me a lot. 
She would not even send back the engagement ring. 
I’ve only just been able to pay up what I owe Walter.” 

Paul looked at Louis thoughtfully. 

Paul silently looked at Louis thoughtfully. 

“I want you to join our Bible Class here Friday 
evenings.” 

“Oh I can’t do that, Mr. Douglas. Friday is my best 
evening.” 

“Best evening for whatr’ 

“For trade.” 

“Well, come into the Saturday night class, then.” 

Louis looked embarrassed. 

“I can’t do that either, Mr. Douglas. That’s my best 
night too.” 

“Best for what?” 

“Well, for trade, for business. You see Friday and 
Saturday nights the people come up from the shops more 
than any other nights and I can’t afford to close up those 
nights.” 

“How about Thursday then? We have a class here 


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just before church time and then adjourn to the church 
service at Dr. Howard’s.” 

Louis looked more embarrassed than ever. 

“I’d like to do it to please you, Mr. Douglas, but — 
but — I don’t see the use.” 

“The use of what?” 

“Well, the Bible study, the prayer meeting and all that. 
I don’t get any good out of them. They’re of no use 
to me.” 

“Do you mean to say that a young fellow like you 
pretends to judge the usefulness of such a book as the 
Bible and of such a power as prayer in the world?” 

“What I mean is I don’t find any use for them. Be- 
sides, I’ve heard the old Bible stories ever since I was 
born. There’s nothing new about them. I’m tired of 
the same old thing all the time. That’s the reason I 
don’t care for Sunday-school any more. There’s no use 
in it to me.” 

Paul gazed at Louis in mingled astonishment and it 
must be confessed, with some indignation. But he was 
just beginning to get a clue to the boy’s recent attitude. 
What he said about the Bible, however, was so flippant 
and scornful that Paul could not help scoring him a 
little about it. 

“You say you have heard the old Bible stories ever 
since you were born. I don’t believe you know the first 
thing about the Bible.” 

“I do, though. I’ve heard the same old stories all my 
life. There’s nothing new in them. That’s the reason I 
don’t care for Sunday-school.” 

“You don’t know the first thing about the Bible,” said 
Paul with righteous indignation.” 

“I do too,” said Louis, who was always touchy when his 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


intelligence was questioned, although he had always found 
his studies a task. 

“All right. Tell me about Absalom. Who was he?” 

“The son of Saul and the brother of Jonathan. Any 
one knows that.” 

“Yes, any one like you knows it, but nobody else. What 
was the first thing Elijah did after crossing the Red sea 
with the children of Israel?” 

“He made the tables of stone and put them into the 
ark.” 

“What ark?” 

“The ark of the Temple.” 

“What is the name of the first King of Israel and what 
was he noted for?” 

“Saul, likewise called Paul. He was noted for playing 
the harp.” 

“Good. Where is Bethlehem?” 

“South-east of Jerusalem about fifty miles.” 

“Better still. What was in the ark?” 

“What ark?” 

“The one made by David.” 

“A piece of the brazen serpent, the tables of stone, 
and the widow’s cruise of oil.” 

“Best of all. Go to the foot of the class and make 
yourself number one. What you know about the Bible 
would make an interesting book and have a big sale. Who 
was Jeptha and what did he do to his daughter?” 

“There isn’t any such character in the Bible. You’re 
guying me.” Louis suddenly turned sullen and Paul 
saw he was getting restive under the examination. Paul 
changed his manner. 

“Louis,” he said with great kindness, “until you have 
a better knowledge of the Bible than you now have 


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don’t ever think you are too big for a Sunday-school. 
Why, do you know you belong to that class of boys who 
have graduated away from the church and Sunday-school 
because they think they know it all, when as a matter of 
fact their ignorance of the Bible is so enormous that 
they ought to be ashamed of themselves every minute 
until they have learned something. A boy in the High 
School who didn’t know the multiplication table would 
be fit for the degree of Ph. D. by the side of these fel- 
lows who have left the Sunday-school because they are 
tired of the same old stories. As a matter of fact, they 
don’t know the ABC about the Bible. 

“You asked me catch questions,” said Louis sullenly. 

“What if I did? You couldn’t answer any kind of a 
question. But look here, Louis. I don’t like to see you 
missing the best things. You are letting the universe 
revolve around that candy shop of yours.” 

“Don’t you want me to tend to business ? I thought it 
was one of the things you wanted me to do.” 

“I do. But you don’t want to do anything else.” 

“The Bible tells us to be ‘diligent in business,’ ” said 
Louis cautiously, venturing on the verse. 

“Yes, and it adds ‘fervent in spirit, serving the Lord/ 
Now, you’re not serving the Lord if you cut out Bible 
study and prayer meeting and church and Sunday-school. 
What are you but a mere money maker?” 

Louis was silent but he turned very red and seemed 
about to explode in anger. 

“Don’t get mad, Louis. You know the rule about 
these talks. Each side must tell the plainest truth about 
the other. I’ve had my say about you. Now tell me 
my faults. Out with it.” 

“You talk to me about spending late hours at my shop. 


274 


PAUL DOUGLAS : 


But I don’t sit up till midnight courting a girl the way 
you do.” 

“Go on,” said Paul laughing. 

“I don’t think of anything else just now,” said Louis 
after a moment of hesitation. 

“Much obliged. Have it out next time. But, Louis, 
honest now, you know I haven’t any wish in the world 
except for your good. And I don’t want you to take 
up the Bible study or the church attendance to please 
me or any one else, but for your own sake. Don't for- 
get that, will you?” 

“No, of course. I know how you mean. But I don’t 
feel as you do about it. Am I to blame for that ?” 

There was a certain wistful note in the question that 
Paul lingered over when Louis had gone. He had made 
no promise about the Bible class and Paul felt more and 
more certain that unless some change took place in Louis’ 
thought of life he would develop into one of the money- 
makers of the world, adding to the large numbers of 
those who see nothing else in the universe of importance 
except the buying for little and selling for much. 

A little later in the year Paul had a talk with George 
which opened up a chapter in that boy’s life that was new 
to Paul. 

George had developed very fast physically. He was 
a boy of slow but sure ways. In spite of both his father 
and his mother, each of whom in a particular way had 
done much to spoil him, George had in some miraculous 
fashion escaped many of the faults of rich men’s sons. 
He had a scorn of the toady and the aristocrat. He 
greatly admired any one, no matter how poor or low born, 
who could do anything he could not do. And he wor- 
shipped in a clean, wholesome fashion muscle and en- 


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durance. By a severe course of training he had suc- 
ceeded in making his body a servant. Long before he 
came to Paul for this particular conference he had been 
playing in the High School team and his unusual strength 
had brought him into a large and popular notice. In a 
game played with Hope College he had scored a touch 
down against the college team by breaking through a 
hitherto invincible center and his picture had appeared 
in both papers, with a detailed account of his personal 
qualifications and a prophecy of his being in time the 
star player of the college when he graduated out of the 
High School. It was about all these matters connected 
with his athletic life that George had his talk with Paul. 

“You see, Mr. Douglas, I don’t just like the way things 
are handled. Just before the game was called last Sat- 
urday one of the Rife brothers of the cigar firm on High 
street came to me and said, ‘Now, old man, do your best. 
Don’t forget there’s a bunch of us got our good money 
up on you.’ Of course I can’t stop the betting on the 
games. But I don’t like to have these fellows think I’m 
playing to help them. I think all this betting or sporty 
element hurts amateur athletics in a school. I don’t 
like it.” 

“Glad to hear you say so. The betting on the game is 
demoralizing. I understand it is forbidden by the school 
and college authorities.” 

“It is, but the fellows pay no attention. It would 
surprise you to know how much money was up on Sat- 
urday’s game. And I happened to know of several 
fellows whose parents can’t afford to lose the money 
they lost. It riles me to think my playing helped these 
sports to win the money. Rife came up after the game 
and slapped me on the back saying, ‘Bully for you. I 


276 


PAUL DOUGLAS : 


cashed in over $300 on that touch down. You’re my 
man.’ 

“I felt like flinging him over the fence. I will next 
time he calls me his ‘man.’ ” 

Paul was silent, thinking over this phase of athletics. 
George went on after a silence. 

“There’s another thing I’m running up against, Mr. 
Douglas. I’ve had several money offers from colleges 
and state universities to come into the game. I had as 
high as a thousand offered me the other day. I don’t 
care for their old money. The pater could buy ’em all 
out. But why can’t they let me alone and let me play 
the game because I want to.” 

“You’re paying the penalty of greatness, George. ‘ And 
the colleges and universities are paying the price of a 
degradation which some time will come *o every school 
that emphasizes muscle and wind above brains and 
scholarship.” 

“That doesn’t help me any now. I’m going to the 
college of my choice when I get ready and if I play foot 
ball anywhere I believe I want to play for fun, not for 
pay. I’m not ready to go on exhibition.” 

George growled deep and loud over the situation. Paul 
counseled as wisely as he knew how. The boy’s attitude 
delighted him, his physical equipment provoked Paul’s 
admiration. Pie could not help saying to George when 
he went out of the office, 

“George, what a splendid medical missionary you 
would make to knock around among the Chinese or the 
Patagonians.” 

“A rum missionary I’d make, Mr. Douglas,” said 
George, grinning. 

“What are you studying for, George?” 


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“Medicine, all right. I love to cut off people’s legs and 
arms and heads and give ’em physic.” 

“Maybe you will choose medical missions after all.” 

George did not answer to this and went away leaving 
Paul dreaming of all the possibilities of such a choice. 

It was close to this time that Paul had a call one day 
to go and see Mr. Darcy at the News office. 

Since Esther had spoken of her father’s nervous feeling 
Paul had seen little of him. He was friendly enough in 
a negative way, but when Paul called at the house he was 
not present for any length of time and was not good 
company when he was present. 

Paul was shocked at the sight of Darcy when he 
entered the office. The editor of the News was under 
great excitement. It was half past eleven. The presses 
were just beginning to throw off the first edition. Darcy 
shut the door and then to Paul’s great surprise locked it. 

“Sit down. I must confide in some one, and you’re the 
only person I know in Milton that I can trust.” 

Darcy’s face was livid. The sweat stood out on his 
forehead. His hands trembled and his voice shook. 

“I’m ruined, Paul. I owe today over $20,000 I cannot 
pay. I’ve tried to keep it secret, but I can’t do it any 
longer. I want you to know how matters stand. I see 
no escape for myself except one way. I have never 
believed in the coward’s resort to suicide, but events of 
the last six months have changed my mind. I want you 
to arrange matters for Mrs. Darcy and Esther the 
best you can when I am gone. I’ll give you all the 
particulars.” 

Darcy pulled open a drawer and took out papers which 
he laid on the desk. 

Paul was stupefied. It was so sudden. He was un- 


278 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


prepared. Mr. Darcy, Esther's father! He looked at 
him through a mist of vision that obscured his features. 
Then suddenly, with a great effort at self control he 
steadied himself and went over directly in front of Darcy 
and sat down near enough to touch him. 


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CHAPTER XV. 

Outside the office the hum of the great press was 
beginning to pervade the building, and strike its note of 
insistent business throughout the atmosphere of the entire 
place. Paul remembered as long as he lived the exact 
setting of this unexpected event. He had recovered his 
mental equilibrium, although he realized keenly enough 
the seriousness of the moment, and he sent up a prayer 
for help that he might be used by God to prevent this 
act on the part of Esther’s father. At the first flash he 
entertained the suspicion that Darcy was not in his right 
mind, but after the first sentences he rapidly decided that 
he was responsible and was making his choice deliberately. 

“Mr. Darcy, you can’t mean this dreadful thing. I 
can’t believe it.” 

“You’ll have to. Of course I don’t intend to make 
away with myself here and now. What I mean by what 
I said a minute ago was that I see no way out of a dis- 
honorable failure except one. And I don’t know any- 
one I can trust as I can you to do everything possible to 
help the family when the end comes.” 

“Mr. Darcy, don’t you believe in God?” 

Mr. Darcy looked at Paul and his smile was ghastly as 
he said, 

“God ? What is that to me ? I’m ruined.” 

He picked up the papers he had laid on the desk and 
held out one. It was a summary of his financial lia- 
bility. He handed it to Paul and Paul saw after looking 


280 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


it over that it meant failure to Darcy with only one 
outcome. It was not humanly possible for Darcy to meet 
this situation. In brief, he had in his ambition for the 
paper, in his eternal jealousy of the Gazette and his 
desire to beat Grange by making the News a larger and 
stronger paper, speculated not only with his own money 
but with funds entrusted to him. For years Mr. Darcy 
had been trustee for various charitable and philanthropic 
societies, besides handling money for one or two small 
estates. His honesty and integrity had never been ques- 
tioned. He had been implicitly trusted. He had be- 
trayed his trust and Paul, even in the great suspense 
of this interview, could not escape the conviction that 
Darcy’s was a desperate case. 

“You see how matters stand. There’s enough there 
to land me in state’s prison, to say nothing of the 
disgrace.” 

“God will forgive you.” 

“But men won’t. And I’m dealing with men, not 
with God.” 

“You are dealing with God first.” 

“What is that to me?” Darcy said coldly. “The only 
question here is one of my liabilities. I cannot meet 
them. I can stave ofif the result for a month at the 
longest. Beyond that I can’t extend the time. Paul, I 
never dreamed I should come to this.” 

“God is good,” Paul said it desperately, his lips pale 
and his heart beating heavily as he faced Darcy. “He 
never turned away his help from any man, no matter 
how deep the trouble or the sin. Mr. Darcy, what can 
you do except turn ” 

“Paul, it’s too late. I have never paid any attention 
to God all these years. I’ll not be such a coward as to 


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impose on him now. I’m in trouble all on account of 
my own fault.” 

Paul tried to say something. Darcy stopped him. 

“It’s no use, Paul. Let me do what I called you in 
here for. As a member of th£ family I trust you to 
attend to these matters. No one else can do it as well.” 

It was at this point in this strange interview that Paul 
first noted the expression of Darcy’s eyes. They were 
beginning to look dull. The eyelids drooped and the 
pupils were contracting. Paul knew Darcy had never 
used liquor. His face had a color and expression now 
that Paul was entirely unfamiliar with. Since coming 
back to Milton after over a year’s absence, Darcy had 
avoided him. No suspicion of the real facts had ever 
occurred to Paul’s naturally frank, open, unsuspicious 
mind. But now as he studied Darcy’s face, the pe- 
culiar set of his eyes, the drooping lids, the atmosphere 
of his face, the first hint of Darcy’s habits began to 
dawn on Paul. But he was not at all familiar with the 
results of the drug habit and after Darcy had with grow- 
ing difficulty pointed out certain items of business to 
Paul he leaned back in his chair and drowsily said, “Paul, 
I am going to make a clean breast of it to you. If I 
were a Catholic I would go to a priest. You are the 
most consistent Christian I know and it relieves me to 
confess to you. Besides, my example may save some 
boy or man over whom you have influence. I’m a mor- 
phine eater.” 

Darcy said it so calmly that Paul could not realize its 
full meaning. 

“You mean ,” he stammered and could say no 

more. 

“Yes, I mean I’ve acquired the habit. I lost sleep over 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


my troubles. I had to do something or go mad. I did 
this. There’s enough in this little box to put several 
men to sleep forever.” 

Darcy quietly pulled a small white box out of his vest 
pocket. Paul looked at* it in horror. The next moment 
he had shot out his hand and snatched the box out of 
Darcy’s. 

Darcy started up with a snarl. 

“Give it here!” 

“Never. Oh, Mr. Darcy, think of Mrs. Darcy! Think 
of Esther! Think of ” 

“I’ve thought of all that. It does no good. Give me 
that box.” 

“I never will.” 

Darcy fell back in his chair drowsily with a strange 
smile. 

“Very well. Keep it.” 

“Have you any more?” Paul asked suspiciously. 

“No.” 

“Before God is that so?” 

“Yes, before God,” said Darcy solemnly. 

Paul breathed easier. He put the box in his pocket. 
And then for an uncounted period of time he pleaded 
with Darcy as he had never talked to any one in all his 
life. This was his one thought: to get Darcy on his 
knees, to bring him face to face with his Redeemer. 
But the only promise he could extract from him was an 
indefinite statement that he would do nothing desperate 
or final until Paul had made some effort to prevent the 
catastrophe. 

When at last Paul went away, his mind was in a 
great whirl of emotion. Darcy opened the door and the 
moment Paul was outside he shut it and locked it again. 


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283 


He then went to his desk and taking out his keys in- 
serted the smallest one on the ring into the small drawer 
at the top of his desk and opened it. He took out a 
white box similar to the one Paul had taken from him 
and opened it. He took out one of the capsules and 
looked at it. Then he put it back again, shaking his 
head slowly. By a tremendous effort of will he went 
back to the door and unlocked it and then walked slowly 
back to his desk. When he sat down there he was 
unable to keep from putting his head down on his arms. 
Some one coming into the room roused him up. He 
answered a question, said something about being ill and 
then fell back into drowsiness again. 

“The old man has ’em again,” was the comment of 
the telegraph editor as he looked into the room a little 
later. 

Paul went to his room to think. 

He had in the course of his young manhood so far 
had several experiences that had tried him and tested 
his endurance. In some ways his newspaper experience 
had brought him an immense amount of conflict with 
himself, but his personal difficulties had not been in- 
surmountable and he had not really feared the outcome. 
Now as he sat alone in his room and went over Darcy’s 
disclosure a cold, relentless fear gripped him. For the 
first time in his life he really understood the terrible and 
far-reaching results of one man’s sins. Here was a 
soul that out of the sin of pride and self glory had 
deliberately involved not only himself but his family and 
hundreds of innocent and dependent people in deep 
trouble and shame. It is true he had not intended to 
take what did not belong to him. He had fully intended 
to replace the money he had used if his speculations had 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


been successful. That is what every gambler in other 
people’s money says he means to do. But now it was 
impossible. What suffering awaited Mrs. Darcy, Esther, 
the boys! Should he, Paul, tell Mrs. Darcy? How much 
did she already know? Walter had gone to Columbia 
Law School. He had lately written home cheerful and 
enthusiastic letters about his prospects. Paul had him- 
self begun to see his way clear to his marriage with 
Esther and they had only the evening before begun to 
discuss the date of it. All this was suddenly flung into 
the distant background by this formidable cloud rising in 
the fair sky of the two lovers. 

Paul groaned in his agony over the event. He turned 
it all over and over. Any way he looked he saw no ray 
of hope. How could he raise $20,000? And even sup- 
posing he did succeed in a miracle like that, what could 
change Mr. Darcy’s habits or remove the shame of what 
had already taken place? 

He got down on his knees and began to pray. It 
seemed to him he was pulled off his chair by a physical 
hand. At first all he could say was, “O God, help me! 
O God, help me !” Then after a time he began to claim 
the promises. He began to ask God if there was any- 
thing too hard for him to do. One after another the 
sweeping statements about forgiveness of sin and the 
absolute ability of Christ to help men bear any kind of 
trouble came trooping into his heart to assure him and 
when he rose and walked over to his window his soul 
was comforted and quieted. He sat down at his table 
and continuing the spirit of his prayer he said, “Give 
me light, dear Lord. Answer me, O my Master. Help 
me to help Mr. Darcy. Save him and the family from 


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shame. Is anything too hard for Thee, O Mighty Maker 
and Restorer of the soul?” 

Then as he sat there, Mr. Randall occurred to him. 
There was only one thing clear to Paul as he thought 
of the man. He had money. It was the man’s God. 
But he also loved power, and he might, he might, possibly 
see in this crisis for Darcy an opportunity for himself. 
Paul had once heard Randall say that if there were not 
already two dailies in Milton he would start one. Who 
could tell if Darcy’s desperate case, the need of this 
money, might permit Randall to acquire what Paul had 
reason to suspect Darcy had refused him more than 
once. $20,000 was but a trifle to Randall. At any rate 
Paul would go to him as a desperate and only resort so 
far as this part of Darcy’s troubles was concerned. If 
by some means he could save Darcy and the family from 
shame ! 

He felt instinctively that the time was short and he 
must act at once. He did not know until afterwards that 
every morphine eater is a liar. He trusted Darcy to do 
nothing until he heard from Paul. But although he was 
not anxious about that promise he felt driven to see 
Randall at once. 

He went down to the office and called him up. Randall 
was at his down town office and cheerfully said he would 
of course be glad to see Paul at any time. 

When Paul went in, Randall saw at once that his 
errand was serious. He sent his stenographer out of the 
room and Paul at once stated his errand. When Paul 
mentioned Darcy’s threat of suicide, Randall said, 

“Did you know he uses morphine?” 

“He confessed it to me.” 


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“I’ve know it for some time. Poor devil ! I fear 
there’s no hope for him.” 

“But can’t we save him from disgrace? Can’t we 
do something?” 

“How?” 

“This $20,000. If it could be taken care of ” 

“Have you got $20,000 to pay other people’s debts 
with ?” Randall asked. Paul thought contemptuously. 

“No, but you have.” 

“I?” 

“Yes, Mr. Randall. What is $20,000 to you? It’s 
not as much as a nickel would be to me. Think what a 
splendid thing for you to do!” 

“What! Fling $20,000 of my hard earned money 
away for a defaulter, a morphine fiend? Old man Ran- 
dall would certainly be called a fool if he did that !” 

“But, Oh, Mr. Randall, think of the disgrace that will 
fall on Mr. Darcy, on Esther,” — Paul had not meant to 
plead for anything on his own account. He saw at once 
that Randall was suddenly struck with a new thought. 

“I see. This comes hard on you, Paul. I never 
thought of that. By Jove. Darcy has made a lot of 
trouble for a lot of innocent people, hasn’t he? Don't 
you think he ought to be made to suffer for it? Will the 
payment of this money for him make him a better man 


Paul’s theology on sin was a simple kind. He had 
never argued it out but he was not perplexed this time 
over the right thing to do. 

“Mr. Randall, the payment of this money to restore 
to the innocent people what has wrongly been taken 
will not be a wrong to any soul. Least of all to Mr. 
Darcy. It may be the saving of him. What is God 


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doing for us all the time but saving us from sin? Do 
the best we can, Mr. Darcy will suffer, does suffer now, 
punishment enough.” 

“I never did such a thing in my life,” said Mr. Randall 
cynically. “You have a good deal of monumental as- 
surance to suggest it.” 

“I do not know where else to go, Mr. Randall, and 
I believed you might consider it. Have you thought of 
the News, Mr. Randall? Darcy’s failure will throw the 
News into the hands of a receiver.” 

“No. Of course it will, though.” Randall began to 
look intensely interested. 

“You could easily secure Mr. Darcy’s controlling share 
in the paper if you assume his liabilities.” 

“So I could,” Randall muttered. 

He was walking up and down the room pulling the 
ends of his mustache nervously. 

“By Jove, I’ll do it. I never have had much fun with 
my old money. I’ll play the part of the good Samaritan, 
only it seems to me I’m coming to the assistance of the 
thief instead of the other fellow. And, Paul, if I do this 
I want you to understand that I want you to take charge 
of the city editor’s work. As to Mr. Darcy, I doubt if 
he is going to hang together very long. I won't trust 
him on the paper to any extent. It will be a condition 
that if I get him out of his financial hole he is to be 
subject to my orders. I’ve always wanted to run a 
daily. I’ll have no end of fun with it.” 

Paul got up, his whole body quivering with excitement. 
He could hardly keep from crying. 

“Oh, Mr. Randall, will you really pay those obligations 
and save Mr. Darcy?” 

“Well, I’ll pay ’em, and if Darcy is saved it will le 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


an incident. What I’m interested in is the paper. And 
you, Paul. I don’t forget what you’ve done for George. 
That boy is a new one since you took him in hand. He 
will do the honors for our family. And of course if 
Darcy’s actions become public you and Esther will 
suffer for it.” 

Paul tried to thank Randall. That hard-headed finan- 
cier brusquely denied much philanthropy in his act, and 
at once began to inquire into the details of Darcy’s 
obligations. 

Paul told all he knew. It was not enough for Randall 
and he said when Paul rose to go, 

“I shall have to see Darcy and go over the whole thing 
with him.” 

Paul hesitated. 

“Are you willing that I should tell him that you will 
assume everything? It will keep him from ” 

“Yes, go ahead, tell him everything. I would go right 
down with you now, but I have a very important meeting 
with my directors at four o’clock.” 

Darcy’s habits had been irregular since his use of the 
drug. Formerly he had stayed at the News office until 
after four o’clock. Often he did not leave the building 
until half past five. When Paul went in, the telegraph 
editor told him that Darcy had gone out half an hour ago. 

“He looked like a sick man, Douglas, and I tried to 
get him to take a hack and go home. But he said he 
would feel better to walk.” 

“Do you know if he went home?” Paul, asked, won- 
dering how much the telegraph editor knew. 

“No, I don’t. He walked off towards the park.” 

Paul slowly went out, pondering if he should go to 
the house. For several reasons he wanted to bring the 


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good news of Randall’s act to Darcy alone. But he 
finally decided to go to the house and see him there. 

When he went in he felt somehow at once as if an 
event of some kind had occurred. Mrs. Darcy met him 
in the library as he stepped in. “Oh, Paul!” and at 
first Paul feared the worst. “Mr. Darcy has told us. 
Has he told you?” 

“What!” cried Paul in bewilderment as to what Darcy 
might have told. 

“That we are ruined! That the paper will have to go.” 

Mrs. Darcy had been crying. Paul tried to comfort 
the poor lady. He wanted to tell her the good news, and 
did tell her enough to assure her that all would be well 
in the end. Mrs. Darcy was incoherent at first. Then 
she began to grow calmer. 

“Mr. Darcy suddenly confessed the fact of his in- 
debtedness this morning. We were all at the table, 
Esther, Louis and myself. He said that owing to a 
series of unfortunate investments he would be unable 
to meet his obligations and that the paper would have 
to go into a receiver’s hands. He said he wanted us to 
be prepared for the worst. I blame myself for some of 
this trouble. I had been reproaching him at the table 
for not having let me have any money lately. And I 
could not understand why he had discontinued my al- 
lowance. But think of that ! Before Esther and Louis ! 
I reproached him.” 

“Was that all he said?” 

“Yes, he said he did not have the money on that 
account. I don’t know what will become of us, Paul. 
And that is not the worst. I must tell you, Paul, I 
can’t keep it to myself any longer, Mr. Darcy has ” 

Paul laid his hand on Mrs. Darcy’s. His own mother 


290 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


had been the opposite of Mrs. Darcy in almost every 
particular. Paul had never been able to think even of 
Esther’s mother in any very tender or affectionate man- 
ner. But as she saw in his look the fact that he knew 
what she knew of her husband, I think Mrs. Darcy 
realized for the first time that in a new sense she had a 
son who understood her and felt for her as even Walter 
and Louis could not do. 

“Oh, I cannot bear it, Paul! It will kill me. I don’t 
mind the money. ‘But this is real trouble.” 

Paul was yet in doubt whether Mrs. Darcy referred 
to Mr. Darcy’s speculations or to his drug habits. Her 
next sentence informed him, and instantly Paul knew 
that Darcy had made only a partial confession of his 
money trouble, concealing his dishonesty from his wife. 

“I’ve known of his habit for several months. I’ve 
done everything I could. I’ve wanted to tell you but 
didn’t dare.” 

“Does Esther know about it?” 

“I’m sure she has not suspected, at least not until lately 
if at all. I think she is ignorant of it.” 

“God can save him, mother.” 

“Oh, I must believe so. Pray for him, won’t you 
Paul? You are good. Your prayers can help.” 

Paul comforted her all he could, and assured hereof a 
settlement of the money matters and said that when 
once Darcy was relieved of that strain he would be in a 
condition to break off the morphine. 

He was gradually succeeding in getting Mrs. Darcy 
into a more hopeful feeling, when Esther and Louis 
came in at the same time. For her mother’s sake Esther 
was cheerful and spoke hopefully to her. Louis seemed 
much troubled. He seemed glad to see Paul and in 


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answer to one or two questions he said business was 
good. He kept looking at his mother with a troubled 
look, mingled with a good deal of uncertainty. They 
had been talking freely together of what they would 
do in case Mr. Darcy had to leave the paper. Paul had 
given them all he felt he had a right to of the prospects 
for a settlement of the money matters, and Louis had 
started to go out of the room to go upstairs and get ready 
for supper. He came back into the library and as if 
afraid he would change his mind if he did not act 
quickly, he laid something in his mother’s hand and 
said, “Mother, I want you to have this.” 

Mrs. Darcy went over to the table where the reading 
lamp was. She found in her hand a new purse, and on 
opening it, took out a roll of new bills and slowly counted 
them. 

“One hundred and twenty dollars! Louis, where did 
you get all that?” 

“I’ve made it,” said Louis proudly. “If father can’t 
give you an allowance every month, I can. I don’t want 
you to be without money, mother. If you need any, come 
to me.” 

Mrs. Darcy laughed and then cried. Louis looked 
sheepish and without replying to his mother’s request to 
keep the money for her, he left it in her hands and went 
upstairs. 

While Paul and Esther were talking over all this, 
supper was announced. 

“We’ll wait for Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Darcy said. “Paul, 
you’ll stay of course.” 

When Louis came down she kissed him and in her 
impulsive way petted him. Louis submitted with a better 
grace than usual and even tried to lighten the strain 


292 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


they were all under by a joke or two directed at Esther 
and Paul, saying that if the family w?s going to econ- 
omize it could begin on the gas consumption in the front 
parlor. 

At the end of half an hour Mr. Darcy had not re- 
turned. Paul telephoned to the office. One of the book- 
keepers said Darcy’s door was locked. He said Darcy 
had gone in there half an hour before. Paul had just 
given this item to Mrs. Darcy when he had a telephone 
call from Randall. Randall wanted to know if Darcy 
would be in that evening. Paul instantly replied that 
Darcy was not at home and suggested that they go to 
the News office and have their talk with him there. Ran- 
dall agreed to meet Paul at half-past seven o’clock. Paul 
told Mrs. Darcy of the arrangement. 

“Mr. Randall wants to see Mr. Darcy about all these 
money matters and wants me to be with him. No, I 
don’t want any supper.” Mrs. Darcy and Esther both 
followed him out into the hall. Mrs. Darcy understood 
Paul’s anxiety. Esther could not understand why he 
did not stay for supper. But Paul felt impelled to go to 
the office. 

"I’ll come back, mother, and tell you all about it,” he 
said cheerfully. His last word was with her, not with 
Esther. 

When he went into the office down stairs Randall was 
already waiting. 

“I seemed to be pulled down here. It isn’t Darcy’s 
habit to stay at night, is it?” 

“No,” said Paul. They went up the stairs in silence 
together. Darcy’s door was shut. Paul knocked. There 
was no answer. He knocked louder, then tried the door. 
It was locked. 


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“Is there another key?” asked Randall in a whisper. 

For answer Paul ran down stairs. There was a dupli- 
cate hanging up in the office. He snatched it off the 
hook and bounded up the stairs three steps at a time. 

When the door opened, both Randall and Paul paused. 

“You go first,” Randall said hoarsely. 

Paul slipped in. The room was in shadow except the 
one lamp over Darcy’s desk. Paul walked steadily over 
to Darcy. He lay with his head on his arms. A small 
drawer was bottomside up. A white box lay near it. 
Several capsules were on the floor. And when Paul 
and Randall moved the head gently up they saw 
that Darcy had slept his last earthly sleep and his soul 
had gone to give account to God of the deeds done in the 
body. Surely, “the wages of sin is death, but the free 
gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our 
Lord.” 


294 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


CHAPTER XVI. 

What a wonderful physician old Father Time is ! He 
lays his calm and healing hand on broken hearts and 
mends them. He relaxes the stern lines of lips that are 
strangers to smiles, and even laughter comes out of them. 
He blunts the sharp edge of bitter memories, and he soft* 
ens the keen outlines of griefs that once seemed too deep 
for even the hand of God to fill up. He introduces happy 
ambition to sorrow and recovers the soul for its accus- 
tomed day’s work and makes life take on new joy in the 
place of the ancient pain. O thou who knowest all the 
heart ache of a world, old Father Time, there is no hand 
like thine to lead thy weeping children out of tears into 
sunshine, out of anguish into hope, out of death into life. 

Time has done all this for the persons in this story who 
have suffered and endured. Paul Douglas as he comes 
home one evening after his work at the office is over, re- 
members that it is twelve years ago that he and Mr. Ran- 
dall found Mr. Darcy dead in his office at the News 
Building. Much can happen in twelve years. Paul goes 
into the writing room and is glad to find an open fire 
there. Esther is late coming in from a visit to her mother 
and while waiting for her, Paul, seated by the fire, recalls 
in the softened glow of a memory which is both glad 
and quietly sober the passing of the time since Darcy’s 
life went out. 

That event caused a great sensation in Milton. 

For weeks people discussed Darcy and his affairs. The 


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Gazette managed to get hold of the fact of Darcy’s mis- 
appropriation of funds and printed a full account of it. 
Randall paid up all these obligations in full and obtained 
control of the paper. Paul left his position at the Assb- 
ciation much to the regret of the Secretary. But he still 
retained a place as one of the directors and an influential 
member and counsellor of the boys. Walter came home 
from Columbia at the news of his father’s death and at 
once made a brave struggle to set things right and outlive 
the disgrace of his father’s sins. Mrs. Darcy had broken 
down under the shock, and for two years while Paul was 
getting on his feet financially, Esther had ministered to 
her mother in patient loving ways that only God and the 
angels will ever know. Louis had shot up into a man un- 
der the stress of the blow that fell on the family. With 
a complete self surrender that had in it even heroic ele- 
ments he came to the rescue with his business. The 
Darcy household expenses were curtailed. Walter went 
to reading law with an old firm that helped him finish out 
his course. He completed it, and after several discourag- 
ing experiences he was admitted to the bar and had begun 
a practice which now brought him a good living. He and 
Louis vied with each other to see how much they could do 
for their mother. It seemed to be the only way they 
could atone for the mother’s sufferings and their own. 
Neither Walter nor Louis was married. They were 
growing into typical old bachelors. Louis had developed 
his business into a large concern which was beginning 
to be known as the best of the kind in Milton. When 
Ada Wyeth came into his store and bought expensive bon 
bons and looked somewhat irritatingly at Louis’ evident 
prosperity, Louis never yielded to her fascinations. Ada 
had been engaged four times and finally had lost her first 


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PAUL DOUGLAS : 


good looks and no one cared but herself. “I’d rather 
you’d buy candy of me than I buy it for you,” Louis 
used to think to himself when she went out of the store 
and he hardened his heart against all possible Adas. 

At the end of two years after that eventful night to 
which Paul was now recurring, he and Esther had been 
married and had gone to live in a comfortable little home 
which they now owned. As the years went by they had 
added to their house a little. The whole had that cozy 
and finished look which Esther so well knew how to make. 
Paul had been successful both on the paper and with his 
writing. Probably no other writer of boys’ stories in 
America had had quite such a hold on readers of the 
Youth’s Companion as Paul Douglas. If he had ever felt 
a thrill of pride over his work he might have been justi- 
fied if he ever thought of the great army of boys who 
waited each week with impatient longing for the arrival of 
The Companion and Douglas’ stories. 

A blazing brand in the fire fell down on the hearth and 
Paul as he stood to throw it back into the grate heard 
Esther come in. She bent over him as he straightened 
back in the chair and put her fresh, cool hands on his face. 
The lovelight was in her eyes, the same as ever. The 
same Esther, a little older, a little more matronly, but her 
lovely face has lost none of its glory for Paul, and the 
love story is always continued and is to run on without 
any end in this case. 

“Where are the boys?” Paul asked. 

“O, they wanted to stay with their uncles over night, 
Walter was crazy over a flying machine his Uncle Walter 
gave him, and Louis was bribed by a box of candy from 
Uncle Louis and I couldn’t get them home. Besides, 
mother,” Esther looked sober, “begged to have them stay. 


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I don’t think mother will be here another Thanksgiving.” 
Paul looking up at Esther felt a tear fall on his hand as 
he put it up to her. She caught it and bent over him and 
for a moment in silence they sympathized with each other. 

Then Esther cheerfully went out into the dining room 
to see if all was ready for supper. She had a maid to help 
about that meal and Paul in front of the fire still musing, 
soon heard Esther say, “Supper’s all ready, dear.” 

Paul rose and started towards the dining room. He 
seemed in a brown study and Esther said as they sat down, 

“What have you forgotten?” 

Paul was fumbling in his pockets. 

“I had a letter from — Esther, who do you think is 
coming here to supper tonight?” Paul got up in great 
excitement and Esther said with a composure born of 
much experience with Paul’s absent mindedness, “I’m 
sure I don’t know. Did you invite the Governor!” 

“No, but George is coming.” 

“George ! And you never told me.” 

“Esther, I had it on my tongue’s end to shout to you 
when I came in. You were not here, and I got to think- 
ing of old times, and ” 

“Never mind,” Esther laughed. “Did you invite him to 
supper ?” 

“Certainly. You see George reached New York last 
week. He came home rather unexpectedly and found both 
Randall and his mother were out of town and I told him 
we would never forgive him if he didn’t come right over. 
He said he might be a little late but he would surely be 
here.” 

“You ought to have told me. You know what a tre- 
mendous appetite George has, or had, and we haven’t 
very much on the table.” 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


'‘Can’t you open a can of something?” 

"Yes, or a barrel. I’ll see what we have,” Esther went 
out into the kitchen, and just then the bell rung. 

Paul rushed to the door and opened it and fairly drag- 
ged into the hall the big bearded man whom he faced. 
They hugged each other like boys and Paul finally fairly 
dragged George into the dining room just as Esther en- 
tered from the kitchen. George simply grinned all over 
with delight as Paul told him to sit down and fill up. 

"Give me the stoutest chair in the house, Mrs. Douglas. 
I don’t want to add to your furniture bills.” 

Paul rushed out into the kitchen and came back with 
one of the kitchen chairs. 

"Here’s a cheap one you can smash, George.” 

George sat down carefully, laughing so hard that he 
shook the room. Paul and Esther were delighted at the 
sight of him. 

"My! But you are a man!” Paul said to himself as 
he viewed George’s proportions. 

George was big with a bigness that was in keeping with 
the whole man. He weighed two hundred and twenty-five 
and he had a heavy beard and coal black hair as thick 
as a shoe brush. With all, he was singularly free from 
awkwardness or clumsiness. He had made his body his 
servant and wonderfully trained it to do his bidding. 

Esther had hard work to get the supper started, Paul 
and George talked and laughed so immoderately. 

"I’m sorry we haven’t more to eat, George,” she said 
when finally they had settled down to something like 
sanity. 

"So am I,” said Paul. "Esther was just saying before 
you came in that you had a fearful appetite.” 

"Paul!” 


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“And she said she was going to open a barrel of some- 
thing for you. I don’t see it any where.” 

“Nor I,” said George, “I wish I did. I’ve lived so long 
on Chinese cooking that I can eat anything American, 
even a barrel. Remember the meals we used to have in 
Torrington Square ? My ! But 1 used to have an appe- 
tite when I was a boy !” 

“To say nothing of the kind Esther says you have 
now, eh?” 

“If you had seen some of the food I have during the 
last three years you would wonder how I could have any 
appetite at all any more.” George suddenly grew sober, 
but it was not a gloomy soberness, only thoughtful. Paul 
looking at him saw the marks of the cross. Truly they 
had made a man of him. 

“Tell us, George.” Esther leaned over the table eagerly. 
“It must be like a story.” 

“It is. If Mr. Douglas knew it he could make a book 
out of it.” 

“Let’s wait till we get through supper and listen in 
front of the fire,” said Paul, who was a fire worshipper. 

“Yes, yes. That will be better,” Esther agreed. So 
they chatted about old times and George inquired about 
Louis and Walter and Bayliss and all high school ac- 
quaintances. 

“I’ll never forget the thump you gave Bayliss that time 
you boxed with him up in the attic. Louis and I nearly 
stuck the eyes out of our heads trying to look through 
the cracks of the door. Then we finally pulled it open 
and didn’t pretend when we saw how busy you were with 
Bayliss. Say, I’ve wondered a good *many times what 
Bayliss came up there for.” 

Paul roared at the memory of Bayliss sitting on the 


300 


PAUL DOUGLAS: 


floor of the attic rubbing his head where it had struck 
on the chimney. Esther blushed as George said with a 
smile, “I wondered sometimes if Bayliss used to come to 
the house to practice music or see Miss Darcy.” 

“Maybe you don’t believe it but Bayliss actually asked 
me if I wouldn’t speak a good word to Miss Darcy for 
him. I kept my promise and then spoke another good 
word for myself. I’ve never regretted it,” said Paul. 

“I see you haven’t,” George said with a wistful look, 
that suddenly lightened up as if he recalled something 
very happy. 

“You wrote you were coming home before your time 
was out to get equipment for the new hospital.” 

“That’s so. I have. But I’ve come to get something 
else.” 

“George !” Esther spoke with a woman’s swift intuition. 
“Are you going to get married ?” 

“Yes ma’am. I am. And I’m the happiest man in the 
Flowery Kingdom.” 

“Who is she?” 

“Remember Dr. Ferris of Tokio? He sailed with his 
daughter, Miss Ferris, on the same steamer from New 
York when I went out five years ago. I got acquainted 
with her on the way over. She came back to Northampton 
two years ago to take a position in the school there and 
I kept up my correspondence?” 

“Did ’ you propose by letter ?’* asked Esther with 
curiosity. 

“I didn’t dare do it any other way,” said George 
seriously. “I waited three years until I felt almost sure 
and then I asked her. And I had to wait six months for 
an answer. That was the most nerve racking period of 
my life except during my first two months in Chaowu 


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trying to learn the Chinese word for sweet potatoes. 
Oh, dearly beloved, but that is a language that takes a 
deal of low tackling and forward passes before you get 
a touch down. And after that you generally miss kicking 
goal. There are fifty-seven different shades of meaning 
to the word for pumpkin pie and when you have mas- 
tered them, if you move over into the next province the 
word that meant pie in Chaowu means green peas in 
Tungchon.” 

“Have you Miss Ferris’ picture ?” asked Esther. 

“Have I ?” George grinned and unbuttoned what looked 
like five or six pockets and pulled out a photograph wrap- 
ped up in about two yards of tissue paper. 

“Why, she is lovely !” Esther exclaimed, when once the 
photograph was uncovered. 

“I think so too. I don’t know what on earth she sees 
in me,” George said humbly. 

“She sees a man,” Paul ejaculated. 

“There’s enough of me to see in one sense,” George said 
looking at his big fists something as he used to do when 
he w r as just beginning to awake to a sense of his bigness. 
“But I’ve seen the time when all of me came in handy.” 

Supper was over and they were in front of the fire. 
Paul threw on some more wood and George continued. 
“That was down in Laifu. I had gone down there to 
see an old Mandarin whose son had a compound fracture 
of the tibia. The native doctor was giving the boy a 
decoction of ground-up tiger bones, deer horn and snake’s 
skin, boiled in equal parts with about a pint of centipedes. 
Think of that as a remedy for a fractured tibia. 

“Well, I got the young fellow down on a table in the 
Mandarin’s front parlor. There wasn’t an easy chair or 
anything like a hospital in the whole town of 92,000 


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PAUL DOUGLAS: 


people. The boy was game, but I knew I couldn’t operate 
on him without giving him chloroform. I tried to t^ll 
the old guy of a mandarin what it was. He had never 
heard of it and I found out afterwards I got the wrong 
word and told him I was going to administer fire and 
brimstone to his boy. 

“He set up a yell and the crowd in the court outside 
came jamming into the parlor, which was a small room 
with one window in the wall about five feet above the 
floor. The first four Chinesers that got in stumbled over 
the operating table and before they could get up I sat 
on ’em. They made good soft seats and I sat there for 
ten minutes and as fast as more came I grabbed ’em and 
threw ’em out of the window. All the time I was trying 
to make the old mandarin understand what chloroform 
was. I said every word from locomotive to asphyxia, and 
at last I think he got convinced that I was crazy. That 
was lucky for me for down in Laifu every crazy man 
is a god. The mandarin blew a whistle and the game was 
called with the boy in the middle of the room with the 
table on top of him and a broken collar bone to add to the 
fractured tibia. 

“I got him straightened out, got him under the influence 
and did a neat all around job. My! But you ought to 
have seen that mandarin when the boy came out of the 
influence. Four weeks after that I went down again. 
Everything was going beautifully. The old fellow wants 
a hospital there now and he’ll give a wheelbarrow full of 
money (most of it stolen from the government) to start 
it. He decorated me with the decoration of the most 
serene and ineffable Descendant of the mellifluous and 
resplendent Daughters of the Rainbow, and gave me a 
silk banner nine feet long worth $250 in Boston, con- 


JOURNALIST 


303 


taining all my virtues since birth. I never knew I had 
so many. 

“But Oh, the people! My people in Chaowu! O 
dearly beloved, what sights to break your heart! 1,100 
cases we treated last year and only five of us to do the 
work. They came to us with cataract and lupus and 
malaria and cholera and smallpox and every known and 
unknown variety of eye sores. Oh, the people ! The 
swarms and hoards of 'em. Without God, without hope, 
without sympathy and without Christ, 440,000,000 of ’em. 
One doctor who knows medicine and surgery in about 17,- 
000,000. What can we do ? Oh, the light is dawning. The 
light of Christ! Wonderful, isn’t it? But you’ve no 
idea what a good doctor or an educated nurse can do. 
My wife will reach ’em. She had a course in Berkley. 
Oh, but they will love her. I can hardly wait to go back.” 

“Do you really want to go back to that dreadful place, 
George?” Esther asked, looking at the big figure in awe. 
There were emotions in George that Esther and even 
Paul had never touched. 

“Do I? Mrs. Douglas, I love my work. I love my 
people. Why, when I walk out in the streets of Chaowu 
and see the people I’ve cured, whose arms and eyes and 
legs and heads I’ve cut off, walking around well and 
happy I feel like a god. I almost live up to my decoration 
as an ineffable and resplendent Descendant of the melliflu- 
ous Daughters of the Rainbow. But it’s the finest thing 
in the world after healing their bodies to lay the balm of 
Jesus on their poor souls. There’s nothing like it in all 
the world.” 

George repeated the words softly and then sat still, 
the fire light playing over his rugged, homely, and yet 
noble face. The shadow cast back of him was gigantic. 


304 


PAUl DOUGLAS: 


In his mild but calm blue eye there was the look of the 
one who acknowledged a conqueror, The Master, Christ ! 
Ah, what power this Nazarene has after all these years ! 
Alexander is a school boy’s memory. Attila has lost his 
sway. Caesar is growing dim. Napoleon could not re- 
peat himself. But this Galilean peasant! What battles 
he makes men fight! What empires he claims for him- 
self ! What victories he wins on every continent ! What 
uncounted swarms in India and Japan and Africa and 
China will sometime stand up in the eternal chorus and 
sing with one voice, “Crown Him Lord of All.” 

Paul also looked at George as Esther had looked. Then 
his look goes back to the fire. .He is sitting by Esther. 
She is the dearest in all the world to him. George is on 
the other side of him. In a true sense the medical mis- 
sionary owes his Christian life and purpose to Paul. He 
tells him so later on. But now in a quiet moment in 
which no one speaks, Paul sees both past and future in 
the embers. How good God has been to him. He thinks 
of the two sturdy lads at the grandmother’s and prays 
they may grow up to be big hearted, useful Christian men. 
He thinks of Louis and has hopes of his business ambition 
involved as it has been these last years by his constant 
and unselfish love for his mother. He thinks of Mrs. 
Darcy on whose life has rested the black cloud of tragedy 
and prays the good God to be very kind to her at the end. 
Then he thinks of his own mother and of all his own heart 
history in which she will rejoice with him when they all 
meet again. Life is good because it is eternal and it is 
worth while because of its struggles and its overcoming 
and its conquest of men for Jesus’ sake. 

So Paul dreams by the fire and the world which will be 


JOURNALIST 


305 


constantly enriched more and more with souls like his 
rolls on its way each decade better than the last and each 
generation giving more homage to the Christ. 







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